


Enslaved

by ScarletAlexander



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Assassination, Dubious Consent, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Slavery, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletAlexander/pseuds/ScarletAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ilya used to be a slave, he used to be helpless. Then he learned to kill to take his fate into his own hands. But fate often has a different path in store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been working on for a while now and I thought it might be nice to get a bit of feedback about how it's going so far. It's currently 43,000 words and I'm still working on it, though it hasn't been edited at all yet so there may be a few mistakes!
> 
> It doesn't actually have an official title yet, so Enslaved is just a working title.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and comments are very welcome =D

The night was peaceful. Lanterns flickered in the faint breeze, the sounds of nature wafted in from around the village, people sat in their homes and talked with their loved ones. A girl sat on the doorstep to her home, lit by lantern light as she repaired a hole in her father’s tunic. It was just the two of them now, but she felt she had everything she ever wanted. Her father loved her more than anything; they had a roof over their heads and food to fill their stomachs. It wasn’t much but it was theirs.

Her father was inside making something for them to eat and she could hear him talking to himself as he clanked the pots and pans, the sound drawing a smile to her face.

A noise pierced the silence of the night; a scream. She jerked her head towards the sound, staring for a moment before the bright orange of flames began to light up the darkness. More screams from the edge of the village and she put down the tunic and got to her feet.

“Father!” she shouted, calling the man from the house. He stood at her side watching the distant flames, hand curled protectively around her shoulder. 

“Go inside,” he demanded, picking up a spade that sat by the door of the house. He ushered her into the building and then disappeared towards the noise.

The wait was long, terrifying. The screams were drawing closer and with them came the sounds of battle; weapons clashing, men shouting. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t sit and hide while her village was in trouble.

She grabbed a poker from the fireplace and stepped out into the night, eyes widening at the sight of the village. They had set more of the houses on fire and the flames reached high, sending smoke billowing out into the sky. She found bodies strewn about as she searched for her father; people she talked to every day, people she counted amongst her friends. And then one she recognised instantly, the sight sending rage and sorrow crashing down around her.

“Father!” She collapsed to her knees beside the body, rolling him onto his back. His eyes were open, staring blankly into nothingness and she knew instantly that he was gone. She couldn’t hold back the tears, just hunched over his body as her village burned around her, crying for the most important person in her life. 

The noises drew closer and then hands were suddenly on her, lifting her to her feet as she kicked and screamed. These men weren’t from their village; their language was strange and different. They paid no heed to her struggling as they dragged her away from her father. She saw her house burning, flames engulfing what was left of her life as she was dragged away.

They had destroyed everything. Now all she had left was her fear and her sorrow.


	2. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya meets the mercenaries

Ilya left his horse tied to a tree in the shade of a large rock where it could graze contentedly on the surrounding grass. It was far enough away from the mercenary compound that they wouldn’t see the animal and become suspicious, but close enough should he need to make a run for it. Years of hard training had given him powerful leg muscles, enough at least for a short, fast sprint to his horse with mercenaries hot on his tail. 

He kept out of sight of the mercenary that he had spotted up on the wall and ran silently towards the compound. The wall was tall but, thankfully, not without the cracks and blemishes that made for easier climbing. It was a simple enough task to get a few good steps up the wall so that he could reach the first crack with his fingers and begin his climb. 

Ilya pulled himself up onto the top of the wall and crouched there while he scanned his surroundings. There were four mercenaries up on the compound’s walls looking for threats from the outside but their current pattern of movements had them at the opposite end. He was unnoticed as he dropped down the other side of the wall onto a lower building, his feet connecting silently with the flat rooftop. Once on ground level, Ilya took advantage of the doorways and shadows to edge towards the middle of the compound, his eyes searching for his target. 

Dax Mercer was a name that meant something to a lot of people. It was with a strange mix of fear and admiration that ordinary people regarded him, but to the military he was a menace. His mercenaries were often called vigilantes, troublemakers and nuisances for their efforts against the ruling of the nation, using less than legal methods to get their point across. Dax Mercer led them unwaveringly and had made his own name as a good source of information on all subjects.

Ilya’s orders had been to get the information he needed by any means necessary, though the unspoken rule had been not to kill him. Killing Mercer would spark outrage against the Order and the last thing they needed was another group seeking to destroy them. If Ilya did his job right he would be in and out again with the information before anyone else had the chance to see him. And Mercer would probably not willingly admit to being defeated by a simple assassin.

He hoped it would be simple. He would sneak into Mercer’s house and ask him for the information, hoping that the man would be clever enough to realise who and what he was, that his position carried enough weight. Failing that, he would beat the information out of the man. He couldn’t go back empty handed, he couldn’t fail. There were so many of them waiting for him to slip up and come back in disgrace, prove to them that he was nothing more than a filthy Cothi who reached above his station. 

There was a large, flat area in the middle of the compound that had been set up as a training ring. As Ilya crouched down to peer around the corner he could see two men fist fighting in the centre of it with a large crowd gathered around cheering them on. At one side stood Dax Mercer, cheering with the rest of them, urging the men to fight harder, with more vigour. 

He was larger than Ilya had thought, both taller and broader than his own athletic frame. But what Mercer had in strength and brutality Ilya would make up for in speed and agility. Should Mercer decide that violence was the only solution, Ilya was confident that he would be able to defeat the man. 

But not in front of such a crowd, at least. He doubted that Mercer’s men would stand back as he beat information out of their leader. And while he was able to take on one of them, the twenty of them that had gathered would have been a different story. 

It was fascinating to watch them in combat. Ilya was so used to the art of agility that he found it strange to watch the two men fight without even trying to dodge the punches thrown at them. Their style seemed to be to absorb the shock of the other’s fist and deal back something more powerful until one of them had had enough. If it had been assassins fighting, it would have been a frenzy of sharp, quick attacks and well-timed dodges. 

After a few minutes the fight drew to a close when one man took a solid punch to the jaw and collapsed onto the dusty ground amidst a roar of cheers. Instead of retreating into the building as Ilya had hoped, Mercer called out for two more men to step into the ring and prove themselves as fighters. Ilya sighed and moved away to find a better place to sit and wait. Perhaps inside the building would prove to be a good spot where he could wait for Mercer without the worry of being discovered. 

The windows around the main building were all closed, the shutters locked from the inside. He could have forced them open but the noise would surely have drawn someone to investigate, a risk he wasn’t willing to take. A door at the side of the building seemed the most likely option, and when he tried the handle Ilya found that it opened in his hand. So much for the high security Master Davix had told him about.

As he pulled open the door, there was a sound from inside the building, a scraping of a chair across the stone floor and Ilya froze, cursing his own stupidity. Of course there would be someone guarding it. Master Davix had warned him for a reason. 

There was no time to flee and no option to kill the man, which would have proved the easiest escape. Mercer was a man who cared about all of the mercenaries working under him, killing even one of them could cause drastic problems. 

“Intruder!”

The man had shouted before Ilya had even had the chance to make up his mind. A swift grasp of the man’s head to knock it against the doorframe was all it took to silence him but the damage was already done. They had to have heard the shout at the fighting ring and so Ilya was faced with only one option.

They already knew he was there so Ilya discarded all thoughts of subtlety to scramble up the side of the building onto the roof where he could better keep an eye on his pursuers. As he had suspected, they were quickly moving towards his location and he didn’t wait around for them, choosing to sprint across the flat rooftop and jump onto another building.

“Assassin!”

One of the mercenaries on the wall had spotted him, probably recognising him from his clothing and the red sash around his waist. They had done some dealings with the mercenaries in the past, back when relations between them had been more amicable. Master Davix had hinted that he had known Mercer a long time ago and that the two of them had had a friendship that had gone sour. Back then the mercenaries had tolerated the assassins in their compound asking them for assistance and for information but something had changed. Of course it was all before Ilya had joined the Order and he had been given scant information about it, only enough to get the job done. 

They had bows and arrows. An arrow thudded against the rooftop beside Ilya, barely missing him as he jumped across to another building, running for the wall. But the mercenaries were too many and he was forced to change direction, drop down onto street level to make a run for the main gate. At least he could open it from the inside, or scale the wall in a different part of the compound. 

“I know you’re here, assassin.”

Ilya barely managed to stop himself running around the corner and flattened back against the wall; Mercer’s voice sounding entirely too close for comfort. 

“Why don’t you make this easier on yourself and come out here? We can have a nice little chat.”

Ilya dashed across the space between the two buildings into a dark alleyway between the house and the compound’s walls, heading away from Mercer’s voice. But there were more mercenaries blocking his path as if they were herding him into a smaller space like some sort of stupid animal. He would have no chance taking the rooftops now that he knew they had archers. He wouldn’t risk an arrow piercing his flesh as he tried to escape. 

He cursed his idiocy. It was unlike him to make such a stupid mistake and risk everything. Perhaps he wouldn’t even need to concern himself with the ridicule of his fellow assassins. If he turned up dead he wouldn’t need to worry about their taunts. But they would know he had failed. Master Davix would know. 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Mercer was close again. He could hear the man’s footsteps moving between the houses so close to him. 

Left with so few options, Ilya decided to make a run for it. If he could reach the wall by the front entrance he could scale it and drop down the other side, getting a fair bit of distance before they could open the heavy gate and come after him. Enough distance for him to reach his horse and get out of there. There was a mercenary in his way as he turned the corner but he swiftly dodged under the man’s arm and began his run for the main gate.

There were shouts behind him and the sound of thudding footsteps as someone ran after him. He was fast in his light clothing, managing to reach the wall before any of them, climbing halfway up it before someone reached him. A hand closed around his ankle and he looked down to find Mercer staring back at him, a grin on his face. 

“Come down, little creature.”

The man tugged on his ankle and Ilya had to use all his strength to stop himself falling from the wall. He could risk using his other foot to kick the man away, but hanging from the wall as he was, it would leave him vulnerable. Instead he braced himself and pulled, hoping to slip out of the man’s grasp. He almost did it, but then Mercer’s other hand grasped his leg and the man pulled again. Ilya couldn’t hold on, not against the man’s superior strength and he fell, collapsing to the dirt on the wrong side of the wall.

He was up soon enough, moving away from Mercer and eyeing up any possible escape routes. The ground would be impossible – the mercenaries were gathering around him, blocking off any chances of escape. The only option was to risk the archers and take the rooftops. 

Perhaps Mercer had seen where his gaze had fallen as the man grabbed him before he could run, closing arms around him from behind in a vice-like grip. Ilya struggled but the man’s hold was tight, making him feel out of breath and light headed. He was aware of Mercer laughing behind him. 

“You assassins never could stand up to brute strength. It’s why you do all that creeping around. Though, I admit, you did well to get in here. I must put more archers on watch.”

Ilya stopped struggling; there was little use when the man held him so tightly. He would have to wait for a gap in Mercer’s defences before attempting an escape. 

“You’re a Shade, aren’t you?” Mercer asked him but Ilya was silent. One thing he had always been taught was that if caught, silence was the key. To the assassins, information was a highly valued commodity, one that was not to be given away to the wrong person. 

When he didn’t answer, Mercer relaxed his grip and turned Ilya around. There were more mercenaries gathered around them now and any chance of escape was futile. Still, Mercer kept a hold of his wrist, using it to keep Ilya still as he pulled off the dark hood that he wore.

“Ah, you’re from Silas.”

There were very few of them in such parts, recognisable by their pitch black hair and eyes. The residents of the nation of Nadoa were mostly fair in colouring, so different to back home.

“I knew a man from there once, such an interesting creature.”

Ilya kept Mercer’s gaze, unwilling to show any weakness. He felt naked without his hood, exposed. An assassin’s identity was something that needed to be kept secret for if people began to recognise them their careers were over. 

“What shall we do with him, Boss?” one of the mercenaries asked and Mercer didn’t reply for a while, just stared at Ilya.

“Take him to the cells,” he said eventually. “I will come and ask him a few questions later.”

Mercer released Ilya’s wrist, giving him a grin before turning to leave. One of the men prodded Ilya in the back with the end of his sword until he moved, setting off across the compound to one of the buildings. 

It was sparse on the inside, just a square space with three barred cells taking up two-thirds of the area. They were all empty. Ilya was pushed into the cell nearest the door and locked in, left until Mercer decided what to do with him.

The first thing he tried was the window. It was just about big enough for him to squeeze through but it had thick iron bars running through it that were impassable. The door presented its own problem in the form of a complicated lock that he wasn’t sure if he could pick. Mercer hadn’t even had his weapons taken off him; perhaps it echoed how confident he was that the lock would hold. 

Ilya sighed and sunk down to sit on the floor, pulling his hood up once more. His identity had already been compromised but it made him feel better to have it up. Perhaps it would shield any emotions he would have when Mercer came for him. He would not show fear or worry, he was an assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cothi = a racist term used for people from Silas, Ilya's homeland.


	3. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya performs a task for Mercer

The noise of the door opening jerked Ilya from his light slumber and he looked round to find Mercer standing in the doorway. It had been a number of hours since he’d been captured and the sun had long set. The light of the moon cast long shadows from the bars across the floor of the cell.

“Hello, my dear.” Mercer grinned at him through the bars. “How are you enjoying the cell? It’s not much different to the accommodation you’re used to, if I remember rightly.”

Ilya said nothing, preferring to let the man talk. Perhaps he would give away something that Ilya could use, something useful.

“As far as I see it,” Mercer began again, “you have very few options. You can’t kill me. If your master had given you permission to do that then I would be dead by now, hm? So your weapons are useless. You could try to fight me, to get me down so that you could run away, but you’ve seen how my strength compares to yours. Oh yes, you think you have agility on your side, but it’s not going to work. I know your kind. Alternatively,” Mercer moved closer to the bars, looking down at Ilya with amusement in his eyes, “you can accompany me to my home and have a nice chat with me. You’re obviously here for something, information, is it? Perhaps you can do something for me and you’ll get your information. Which will it be?”

Little choice, really. Reluctantly Ilya rose to his feet and approached the bars, waiting for Mercer to open the door. The man was right, his weapons were useless and his strength wouldn’t match up. The only option he had was to go with the man and jump through his hoops. At least then he had the chance to go back with the information they needed.

Mercer didn’t bother to keep a hand on him once he let him out of the cell, simply walked off ahead, expecting him to follow. He was led across to the main building at the head of the compound, past mercenaries keeping guard that watched him with wary eyes. 

He was taken into a room with a fireplace that had a table, some chairs and a large bookcase. Across the room was a large archway with a curtain, behind which, Ilya suspected, was Mercer’s bed. 

“Sit.”

Mercer indicated to a chair beside the fire and Ilya contemplated briefly before doing as he was told. He had no way of knowing what the man wanted of him, what he would want to exchange for the information. He didn’t seem to type to give it away for free. 

Mercer poured a cup of water and placed it on the table in front of Ilya.

“What is your name?”

Ilya was silent for a moment, leaning to take a sip of the water before placing the cup back down.

“What does it matter?”

“It matters much, assassin. Names are important things, don’t you think?”

The man eventually sunk into the seat opposite Ilya, his fingers drumming against the arm rest as he waited for a reply.

“Ilya.”

“I’ve not heard of you,” Mercer said with a smile. “Either you’re new…or you’re very good. Who is your master?”

“Davix.”

“Oh?” Mercer raised an eyebrow. “If you’re Davix’s Shade then that means…such a shame, he was a nice lad.”

Silence. Mercer leaned closer.

“What are you after, Ilya? What has your master sent you here for?”

“Information on a man named Rynor.”

“Arthur Rynor?”

Ilya nodded. “He’s up to something in Dras, trading slaves, but we don’t know how far his influence goes. We need to know who he’s working for and who’s working for him.”

“I know about Rynor, he’s approached me with a proposition or two in the past month, but,” Mercer leaned back in his chair, “he’s a slimy little man. I know what it is you need.”

“And in return?”

Mercer didn’t speak for a while as if contemplating his answer. Eventually, he got to his feet and crossed over to the table to pick up a book.

“Two things. Firstly, something was taken from me; I want you to get it back.”

He showed Ilya the book. There was a picture of a pendant of an intricate design and within it set a deep, red gem.

“It belonged to someone very important and I want it back. I know where they’re keeping it but can’t risk an out and out war with those that have it. My mercenaries aren’t exactly…stealthy. They’ll take you to where it is and all you have to do is get it for me.”

“And the second thing?”

A smile spread across Mercer’s face.

“We will discuss that when you get back.”

Ilya nodded and rose to his feet.

“I’ll leave now, then.”

 

The sun was beginning to come up as they reached their destination, casting pale rays of light across the landscape. They pulled the horses up outside a tall building on the edge of Aquaea city and dismounted. It was a large city named for the canals that ran through its midst and the river that it bordered. Further to the west the river broke into the sea and the city was often full of people that had come in on boats from other lands; traders, travellers, explorers. Ilya had visited the city but a few times; his work sent him there rarely.

Ilya lead his horse into the shade of a tree, tying her reins around its bark. She would be contented enough to graze on the grass growing around its base or the leaves hanging from its branches.

“It should be in a small, red box,” one of the mercenaries told Ilya as he stared up at the building that jutted out above the city wall, trying to figure out a way to scale it. “Our sources tell us it’s being kept on the top floor. Good luck, assassin, we’ll be here when you get it, ready for a quick get away.”

Ilya scaled the city wall first, managing a relatively simple climb up to the top. Getting down the other side was more difficult as he had to watch out for people guarding the building.

There were a few of them around, men dressed in similar clothes; perhaps belonging to a faction he didn’t know of. Aquaea city was a long way from Medeva and the assassins found they had little reason to hold an interest in it. There was a rumour that Aquaea had its own order of assassins, but Ilya had never been officially told as such. Perhaps the masters knew but they were keeping it to themselves for a reason. 

Ilya could see why the mercenaries would have had a problem. The majority of the guards were clustered around the ground-level entrances, which left only one way in, and mercenaries weren’t known for their climbing abilities. They weren’t known for their stealth either, preferring to rush in with strength and numbers rather than perform a covert operation. 

He kept out of sight of the guards as he circled the building, looking for the best way inside. It had plenty of windows around its perimeter but they were closed and looked to be difficult to open from the outside. He found two entrances, one in the front and one to the side, but both were guarded and Ilya didn’t want to get drawn into combat so out in the open. Perhaps he could win but it would do him no good to draw attention to himself.

He scanned the building, searching, eventually settling on an open window about four stories up. It would be quite a climb but there were enough ledges to provide adequate hand holds. He began his climb at the back of the building, taking advantage of the fact that this side was next to the city wall and would provide him added cover. Soon enough he reached the open window and pulled himself inside, immediately checking for guards. He found one standing in the hall watching the staircase but it was easy enough to sneak up behind him and dispatch him quickly and silently with a knife in the back. He had been given no rules about not killing people and as such would perform his job in the easiest way possible. No witnesses, no problems. 

He didn’t encounter anyone else as he made his way to the top of the building and he quickly performed a search of the floor for the item in question. He found it on a desk in one of the rooms, sitting atop a pile of papers. Ilya had to wonder why they’d deemed it to be important enough to steal, why they would risk angering Mercer and his mercenaries. It was beautiful, but it was just a piece of jewellery. Assassins weren’t ones for lavish treasures, preferring instead to live simply. Ilya himself owned so few things; he didn’t see the point. Anything he truly needed was provided to him by the Order and he had little time for anything else.

The box was too big so Ilya took the pendant from it to slip into the small pouch on his belt that usually held a vial of poison. When he made his way back down the stairs, he took a moment to hide the body of the man that he had killed. Hopefully it would take them a while to realise that both pendant and guard were missing, and by then Ilya would be long gone.

The body was concealed easily enough behind a large screen in one of the empty rooms. It wasn’t an exceptional hiding place but with any luck the body wouldn’t be discovered until he was gone. As he moved to leave the room he heard voices in the corridor, two men talking together as they passed. 

“Have you seen Fray? He was watching this floor.”

Ilya couldn’t see either of them but had to assume the second man had shrugged when the first one gave a sigh.

“Probably slacking off again; you know how he is.”

They moved off quickly enough, giving Ilya the chance to slip past them towards the stairs. Since climbing down was often a lot harder than climbing up, Ilya decided against leaving from the same window he had entered through and instead headed further down the stairs. There were more people moving around on the lower floors but they were easily evaded. It took but a moment to work out their patterns, where they were going and when would be the best time to move, and Ilya crept past them to continue his journey downwards.

He stopped suddenly as he heard voices, slipping into a dark area behind one of the doors just in time, crouching to avoid being seen as two men entered the corridor.

“Why are we mocking Mercer in such a way? What does the boss hope to gain from it?”

Ilya saw the other man shrug through the gap at the hinges.

“It is what we were told to do.”

“Mercer will come to get it back.”

“That’s exactly what we want. To wait for him to provoke us.”

“And then?”

The man shrugged again.

“The boss will tell us in time.”

“You two, stop slacking off.”

The third man had a strange voice, thick with an accent he didn’t recognise. Ilya leaned closer to see him through the crack in the door but could only make out a slice of the man’s frame. He was tall, his features obscured by a hood.

“Of course.”

The two men scurried off to carry out their duties but the third remained for a moment, turning to scan the corridor behind him. Ilya had to wonder why there were so many on guard here, perhaps it was the headquarters for whatever faction they were involved with. Perhaps he had stumbled right into enemy territory and put himself in more danger than any of them had realised. Or perhaps Mercer had known exactly what he’d been sending Ilya into.

Once the man had left, Ilya moved from his hiding place to make his escape. Down the corridor he found two sets of stairs – one leading down to the front door of the building, the other into a small storage room. The window in the storage room was small but Ilya just about managed to squeeze out of it and climb the short way back down onto solid ground.

The mercenaries were still waiting for him as he touched down on the other side of the wall, already untying the horses for their quick exit.

“Did you get it?”

Ilya nodded.

“Give it here.”

He handed it over without a thought, glad to have something that was obviously important to Mercer out of his hands. They set off on the long trip back to the mercenary compound, one step closer to Ilya getting the information he needed so that he could return to the Order for his next task.

 

“So…this task was performed to your satisfaction?”

Ilya stood in the middle of Mercer’s room, watching the man pace around him, staring at the pendant in his hand. Eventually, he put it down on the table and moved to stand in front of Ilya, looking down at him. He was perhaps a foot taller than Ilya, much broader in the shoulders and arms. He had the type of body that suited a mercenary but Ilya doubted he would make a good assassin. 

“Yes, very good work, little assassin. I hope I have the opportunity to get you to perform a few more tasks for me, we shall see.” 

“What was the second thing you wanted?” Ilya asked, hoping to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. His time was vital and he didn’t want to waste it catering to the man’s every whim.

Mercer smiled at him, a kind of smile that made him feel a little uneasy.

“I will save that task and should we meet again I will remind you of it. The retrieval of this pendant is enough for the small bit of information you ask for.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

“You think I would have use for you in the future?”

Mercer gave a laugh, a deep sound that was almost unfamiliar to his ears. People didn’t laugh much around assassins.

“You will always have need for me. Yes I know you have your own information gatherers but there’s only so much the few of them can do. My influence extends far beyond these walls. You want to know something you come to me.”

“I want to know about Rynor.” He kept his voice firm, finding himself angering at Mercer’s time wasting. It was a few moments before the man nodded, gesturing for Ilya to sit with him at the table.

“Then let me tell you what I know, assassin. I hope it will do you good.”


	4. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya is sent on a mission

The journey back to the assassin’s compound was thankfully not a long one. After seeing to it that Inna would be taken care of, Ilya made his way to Master Davix’s office, finding the man sitting at his desk.

“Ilya.” The man looked up at him from the book he had been scanning. “I trust the visit to Mercer was worth it?” Ilya nodded. “Then come and tell me what you’ve learned.”

Ilya lowered himself into the seat on the other side of Davix’s desk, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of paperwork that littered its surface.

“A man came to visit me while you were gone,” the master assassin began, “asking me for help in liberating a number of slaves in Dras. He didn’t know the identity of the slave trader, but I am guessing that you do?”

“Rynor.”

Davix nodded.

“And you plan to aid this man?”

“Yes.”

“With the information you have gained from Mercer and the skills you have at your disposal, it will be little trial for you to infiltrate the slave compound.”

“Mercer told me that Rynor deals mainly in slaves from Silas.”

Davix regarded Ilya with a thin smile on his lips. “Perfect. You’re to rendezvous with a man named Briden in Dras. I trust you will be able to find him on your own?”

Ilya nodded his head in agreement; he was more than capable of doing things on his own.

“Good. He will then sell you to Rynor, saying he picked you up on a trip to Silas.”

“And then?”

“Then you are to kill Rynor by any means necessary.”

“Mercer warned me of the consequences of eliminating Rynor. Even he does not know how high this venture goes.”

“I trust you will be able to handle it, Ilya.”

“Yes, Master.” Ilya rose to his feet and bowed his head. “Your will be done. I will depart at first light.”

“Very well. Goodnight, Ilya.”

The assassin compound was silent as Ilya made his way to the dormitories. The only signs of life were the well hidden assassins on guard duty, their dark clothes allowing them to blend with the shadows. They ignored him as he passed, not through malice but through years of discipline and training. The assassins valued the security of their compound above most things, it was their last line of defence and the place they could return to if there was trouble. To allow anyone within the walls through distraction or idiocy could be fatal.

Ilya opened the dormitory door as silently as he could manage, unwilling to disturb his brothers and sisters during their well earned rest. Even as a Shade he shared a room with fourteen other assassins, though his rank had afforded him a curtained off section in one corner. He had often wondered if it was for safety that so many of them shared rooms, since it would take just one of them to hear something and alert the others, or if it was to demonstrate the simple life of an assassin. No unnecessary luxuries or comforts were afforded to any of them, even those of higher rank, though the master assassins had their own living spaces. 

There were a few empty spaces in the dormitory, assassins out at work, taking advantage of the darkness. The rest slept peacefully, though Ilya knew they all had their weapons nearby. They had many enemies.

Ilya slid the curtain across behind himself and crouched to lay down his bed roll. He hadn’t realised how tired he was until his head hit the pillow and he was happy to let sleep take him.

 

Ilya was awake before the sun rose. The other assassins were still asleep as he moved through the dormitory to head to the bathing area and he again adopted silence as to not disturb their slumber. The baths were empty, though they would be full soon enough and Ilya washed quickly, aiming to depart before the rush. 

As he entered the dormitory once more to dress properly and get his weapons, he found the other assassins beginning to wake. 

“Shade Ilya.”

One of Davix’s blades bowed before him, a woman by the name of Beth. She had proved to be an asset, effectively training some of the younger and more inexperienced assassins.

“Sister. Do you have much training to do today?”

“Yes brother. Some newly promoted apprentices. They are eager but have so much to learn. And you?”

“I will be absent for a time. A mission.”

She nodded, giving him a small smile before turning away and leaving him to get himself ready. 

It took only a few minutes for Ilya to collect his belongings and leave the dormitory. He stopped past the dining hall on the way out to collect a small sack of food and water for the journey and then made his way to the courtyard. His horse whinnied at him as he opened the stable door and he laid a hand on her neck, stroking the soft fur for a brief moment.

“We will have to be apart for a few days, Inna. But I will see to it you are cared for.”

There was more life in the compound as he rode Inna out into the courtyard. While training would not begin until the assassins had been fed, a few of them were setting up the training areas.

“May your blade keep you safe, brother,” Beth called to him as he rode past and he nodded in response before urging Inna into a gallop.

 

Ilya had been to Dras several times over his years as an assassin and he found he liked it even less every time he came here. Mostly due to how he never visited for sight seeing, only to perform assassinations, to gather information, to stalk a target.

The sun was high in the sky as he rode into the city, casting its rays across the people milling about seemingly aimlessly. There were so many of them packed into the market district of Dras that he had to slow his horse to avoid knocking any of them down. Eventually he climbed from Inna’s back and took the horse by the reigns to lead her to the nearest stable.

The stable keeper turned out to be a nice man, eagerly offering to look after Inna until further notice for a small fee. Ilya gave the horse a stroke before he left, not wanting to be without her for so long. An assassin had so few things to trust – and he had come to rely on Inna for her stability and her quiet obedience.

Ilya wandered around the market district for a few minutes before he came across a tavern. From previous experience he knew they were excellent places to find information. People were looser with their tongues once they had had a few drinks. 

It was surprisingly full for the middle of the day, tables packed with men talking and laughing loudly together, as well as the odd whore. Dras was a far cry from the discipline of the assassin’s compound but Ilya was not one to deny people their pleasures in life. There were so few of them.

“What’ll it be?” 

Ilya glanced up as the barman approached, resting a thick arm on the bar. He had the look of a man that had been doing hard work all his life, no doubt labouring night and day to keep his customers happy.

“I’m looking for a man named Briden.”

The man’s nose wrinkled briefly at his accent, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Should be at his shop at this time, lad. Just across from the blacksmith’s.”

Ilya bowed his head slightly. “You have my thanks.”

The blacksmiths wasn’t too hard to find. He simply followed the smell of the heat and the metal and the sounds of steel hitting steel . They had a blacksmith back at the assassin compound and Ilya found he liked to watch the man work, when he could spare the time. The crafting of something so important to an assassin was an art form.

Across from the blacksmith was a fairly plain building with little indication that it was a shop except for a faded sign hanging over the door. A small bell rang when he pushed open the door, resonating around a room he could only describe as chaotic. There was stock everywhere; on the floor, all over the walls, piled up in the corners. He could just about make out a counter in the corner of the room again piled high with stock.

“Be with you in a minute!” 

There was someone in the back room and Ilya took a moment to look at some of the stock while he waited. Clearly Briden was a well-travelled man, selling curios and trinkets from all over. He noticed a few Silaen statuettes on the windowsill, perhaps not a popular item in Dras.

“How can I help…oh.”

Ilya turned as the man entered the room, noting the sudden worried expression on his face that faded soon enough into recognition. 

“You are Briden?”

The man nodded.

“Did Davix send you?”

“Yes.”

Briden looked around as if nervous about who might be listening and moved past Ilya to lock the door. He looked out at the street before pulling the curtain across the door.  
“Never know who might be watching around here,” he explained, ushering Ilya through to the back room, which was just as chaotic.

“What made you go and see my Master?” Ilya asked, watching the man clear some space so he could sit down. Briden appeared to be a bit wary of him as if waiting for him to attack at any moment.

Briden sighed. “I travel a lot…as you can probably tell.” He waved a hand towards his mountains of stock. “And a short time ago I was in Silas. They’re so wary of us Nadoans, untrusting.”

“Do you blame them?”

“You are Silaen, aren’t you?”

Ilya nodded.

“But you’re not afraid of us. I guess you wouldn’t be. But these people were. It took them ages to warm up to me but then they started to tell me stories. They told me about men that came over and just…took them away. Rounding up the young ones, the attractive ones and just taking them. They didn’t know where the men took them or who they were but I had my suspicions.”

“Rynor?”

“Yes. He brings them back here and sells them as slaves. Sometimes just regular slaves but then others are special…pleasure slaves. It’s disgusting. They’re people. How can he just enslave them like that?”

“Some people like to take what does not belong to them.”

Briden stared at him for what seemed like a long time, finally breaking the stare with a shake of his head.

“I don’t envy you doing this; I imagine it’ll be difficult.”

“It is what I am trained for. When do you intend to take me to Rynor?”

 

Neither of them wanted to waste time. Soon after his arrival, Briden took Ilya upstairs where he could find him some simpler clothing. It would do no good to turn up to Rynor’s slave encampment wearing his assassin’s clothing. He was supposed to be a simple Silaen peasant bought on one of Briden’s trips abroad and being sold on because of a need for money. 

Since Ilya had brought nothing with him, Briden loaned him a simple tunic, trousers and shoes. They were too big on his frame but if anything it added to the ruse.   
He felt strange without his clothing and his weapons. Briden hid them in his house for Ilya to collect upon his return, but he hated to leave them behind. To be in such a hostile place without the safety of his weapons would be a challenge. But then he wasn’t supposed to defend himself. He was supposed to let them do what they wanted with him until he could get close enough to assassinate Rynor. And the sooner it was done the sooner he could get back to normality. 

“You’re younger than I thought,” Briden commented when Ilya returned downstairs. “How old are you?”

Ilya shrugged. “Twenty five perhaps.”

“You don’t celebrate your birthday?”

He shook his head. “You are as old as you feel. I will continue to be an assassin until I can physically do it no longer. We do not limit by age.”

“I wonder what Rynor will do with you.”

It was something Ilya had been mulling over. If he was accepted as a slave within Rynor’s encampment, then what would happen to him? Who would Rynor try to sell him on to?   
He was still thinking about it when Briden led him out to the back where he began to prepare the horse and cart. The slave compound was a little way out of town, too far to walk, and Ilya was happy when Briden climbed onto the front of the cart, letting the assassin get into the back where he could think in peace.

It was a quiet journey. Ilya sat thinking about the mission ahead, about how he would get to Rynor. He would need to find or fashion a weapon and then gain an opportunity to see the man in person. Perhaps all of the work would be done by subordinates; perhaps he wouldn’t even get the chance to see Rynor. But it was an assassin’s job to adapt and he would have to bend to any situation fate saw fit to throw at him. And then there was the problem of being sold on. If someone decided they wanted to buy him, his chance to kill Rynor would be taken away. How to make himself unattractive to buyers, yet not incur too much wrath from the slavers? A struggle, indeed.

“We’re almost there,” he heard Briden call from the front and twisted his head to get a look at the slave compound looming ahead. A formidable looking structure, it was made up of a collection of buildings surrounded by tall, strong-looking walls. The only entrance he could see seemed to be a gate on the eastern side that they were heading towards.  
He turned back around as Briden reached the gate, lowering his head and trying to look like a dejected slave. 

“What do you want?”

A man had approached the cart, but Ilya didn’t turn his head to see.

“I have a slave to sell.”

Perhaps the man had nodded to another as Ilya heard the sound of the gate being raised. It sounded heavy, the pulley took the strain, protesting under the weight, sending out a fresh wave of oil and grunts as the men struggled to pull her up. He hoped it would not pose too much of a problem for him later.

Ilya could see a man following them in from the gate, moving past to fetch someone when Briden drew the cart to a stop. 

“I hope you’re ready,” he said in a low voice as he approached the back of the cart, reaching out to grab Ilya’s arm to pull him out, trying to look the part. 

Ilya stood with his head down as they waited, searching the surroundings from beneath the hair that had fallen across his eyes. He usually wore it pulled back from his face where it wouldn’t hinder him in battle, but Briden had insisted on him wearing it down. It was getting too long now. 

The area they waited in was a courtyard, a big space between the walls and the buildings. There were a few men wandering around – guards perhaps – but no slaves in sight. He had to assume they were kept locked away where they wouldn’t be too much trouble. 

Soon enough a man exited the smaller building ahead of them. Not Rynor, but seemingly one of higher power considering the way he walked as if he owned the place.

“So you have a slave to sell to me, hm?”

Briden looked nervous. Ilya had to hope he could keep himself together long enough to complete the transaction.

“Y…yes.” Briden used a hand to push Ilya forward slightly. “I picked him up in Silas.”

The slaver grasped Ilya’s chin, moving his head upwards so that he could get a look at him. Ilya, used to meeting anybody’s gaze with his own formidable stare, had to force himself to look away meekly. 

“He’s a pretty one. Why are you selling him?”

“I need the money.”

“Take off your tunic.”

When Ilya didn’t move immediately, the man gave him a cuff around the ear.

“Is your slave deaf?”

Briden grasped him by the arm, trying to look like a man who could command obedience from his slaves.

“He doesn’t speak our language. Do as you’re told.” The last sentence was added in badly pronounced Silaen. 

It all brought back memories. His life before, in Silas. The unreasonable demands of his former master, the beatings he endured. He felt he had come so far only to end up back in the same place. But this time it was only temporary, it had a purpose and somebody would end up paying for it in blood.

Knowing that further hesitation could jeopardise the deal, Ilya pulled off his tunic. He disliked their gazes on him, especially when the slaver moved around him to study the scars on his body. The man gave a noise of displeasure.

“A shame that he is scarred, it will reduce the price, you realise. Perfection is an important characteristic with this sort of slave.”

“This sort of slave?” Briden’s voice sounded shaky.

The slaver nodded.

“Well he’s too small for proper physical work…he would do as an attendant or perhaps I can sell him as a pleasure slave. There is some demand for creatures like him.”

Ilya caught Briden’s eye when the slaver wasn’t looking. The man gave him an almost apologetic look. He found the idea of being sold as a pleasure slave laughable. He couldn’t imagine there was much desire for slaves that would kill you as you slept. 

“I’ll give you…three hundred gold pieces for him.”

Ilya had little idea about the value of things since he had no money of his own. Anything he did obtain went to the Order and everything he needed was provided for him by them. From the look on Briden’s face, however, he could guess it wasn’t a particularly high amount.

“Three hundred and fifty.”

The slaver thought for a moment.

“Three hundred and thirty. And that’s the highest I will go. He is flawed, after all.”

Briden hesitated, looking as if he was about to give up on the deal altogether. Ilya noticed a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his neck. He hoped that no one else could see right through Briden’s somewhat inadequate acting.

“Fine,” he said after a while. “Three hundred and thirty.”

A grin broke across the slaver’s face.

“Excellent. Then come with me. You,” he indicated to a guard standing close to them, “take him to the pens.”

Ilya found himself glad to be free of Briden at last, though not happy about the way the guard dragged him along by his arm. 

He was taken into one of the larger buildings, stepping out of the bright sunlight into the darkness of the interior. There were few windows inside, small and high up on the walls. 

“Farak bought a new one.”

The guard shoved Ilya towards the man who was standing by the door. 

“What’s he for?” A grin passed the man’s face as he looked down at Ilya. “Pleasure slave maybe? Looks like he’s got a tight, little arse.”

He made a guess that they assumed he couldn’t speak their language. Perhaps they were used to it since a lot of the slaves came fresh from Silas, most having never met a Nadoan before. 

“Perhaps I’ll sample the merchandise.”

It took everything Ilya had not to lash out when the man grasped his backside in his large hand. 

The guard shoved him back. “You know Farak doesn’t like you doing that. Ruins it for the customers.”

The second man laughed. “This one looks like he’s been fucked before. Not like I’d be ruining him.”

“Just put him in the pen.”

The man grumbled to himself in a low voice as the guard walked off. He grabbed Ilya by the arm to drag him into the next room.

It was a large space. Along each wall were a series of barred cages, each housing a number of slaves. Ilya was taken along the room to a cage at the end.

“I’ll come back for you later, precious,” the man told him as he pulled the door open and shoved Ilya inside. He gave Ilya an ugly grin as he locked the door and then turned to go back to the other room.

The other slaves were silent, huddling in the corners as if they hoped that no one would notice them. Only one of them, sitting on a thin blanket that Ilya assumed was a bed, looked back at him.

“Better stop looking people in the eye, boy. That gets you in trouble around here.”

The man was older, perhaps forty-five. He looked as if he’d led a hard life, his face haggard, his skin mottled.

It had been such a long time since Ilya had been around other Silaens. Since he had left Silas, he had come across so few of them as they weren’t a popular race in Nadoa. He hadn’t spoken the language in years; it almost sounded strange to his ears after so long.

“Who was that man?” Ilya asked, settling on the floor near the door of the cage since there was little space elsewhere.

“I think his name is Rade. He’s a cruel man. Got a taste for youngsters like you.”

“And you? What is your name?”

“Names don’t matter here, boy. You don’t have one anymore, you don’t need one.”

Ilya didn’t blame the man for his cynicism. A brief glance around told him of the terribly conditions they were forced to live in, cramped together in tiny cages in the hot, stuffy room. Little air could reach them and there was barely enough light to see by. It made him angry to think about how his people were being treated. But if all went well he would be able to put an end to it all and let them go free. 

“I’m Luvanya.” 

He turned at the words, finding himself looking into the eyes of a young girl who was huddled in the corner of the cage, her arms wrapped around her knees. She looked perhaps fourteen and scared out of her mind. He hoped she hadn’t been there long.

“Ilya.”

“Did they steal you from your home, too?”

The older man laughed. “They stole all of us from our homes, girl. Do you think any of us volunteered to be here?”

Ilya shot him a look, angered by his attitude. At the very least they could be a comfort to each other. When he turned back to Luvanya she had tears in her eyes.

“No,” he replied finally, “I have been here for some time.”

Her eyes widened.

“You speak their language?”

Ilya nodded.

“Better not let them know that, boy. It’ll make things harder for you.”

“I don’t intend to.”

The man shook his head. “You look at me like you hate me, but I’m just trying to help you. If you displease them you won’t last a second. Look at you, what are you going to do against them?”

He had to let them assume he was weak, both slave and guard alike. If anyone had any inkling that he was an assassin then his life would be in danger, so he would play along and feign frailty. They wouldn’t know that his slender body hid subtle power, that his legs would allow him to sprint faster than most men, that his arms were strong enough to support him as he climbed buildings, that his senses were the well honed senses of a killer. It was best that they were kept ignorant.


	5. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya's first viewing

Ilya awoke before dawn, curled along the bars of the cage, freezing cold. He’d been given nothing to lie on and nothing to cover himself and had to make do with the clothing Briden had provided him with for warmth. The slave area seemed to alternate between the freezing cold of night and the stuffy heat of the day, neither state was good for the slaves that were constantly locked away there.

With nothing to occupy himself with, he leaned against the bars and cast his gaze over the other cages, noting the sheer amount of slaves locked away. There must have been almost one hundred in the one room; one hundred people stolen away from their homes and forced into servitude. He had to wonder just how many other slaves were in the compound.

It was some time before the other slaves awoke. A while after that a few men entered the room to shove meagre portions of food and water through the bars. Ilya let the other slaves snatch them up, not hungry enough to take the food from someone else who was probably starving. He did take the water that was offered to him, finding his throat dry from the long night in the cage. 

He was thinking about beginning a conversation with Luvanya when a loud ringing filled the compound. The slaves began to rise to their feet and it wasn’t long before guards entered.

“It’s a viewing,” Luvanya whispered as he got to his feet. “Someone come to look for a slave.”

The guards seemed to only be picking certain slaves out of the pens, young and attractive men and women, some too young. When they got to his cage there were only three of them taken – himself, Luvanya and a young woman whose name he didn’t know. She had spent most of the time huddled in the corner asleep, perhaps a ruse to avoid talking to anybody.

The sunlight was blazing down from the sky when they stepped outside and Ilya raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden light, feeling dizzy and blind for a moment. The slaves were already being organised into a line that stretched the length of the courtyard, ready to be inspected by whoever had come looking. 

“What will happen?” he asked Luvanya once the guard had forced them into the line and then left them. She looked up at him from under her fringe, far too young, too innocent.

“They will come down the line and inspect anyone that they are interested in. Then they will purchase whoever they like to take away with them.”

“And when they are purchased?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know; none of them have ever come back.”

He could imagine that they wouldn’t lead good lives. Anybody who was willing to purchase another human being wouldn’t be the type to treat them well, to provide them with what they needed. They would be treated like animals and abused both mentally and physically. 

From the look of those that had been chosen for the viewing the customer in question was after a pleasure slave. The idea of fourteen year old Luvanya being forced into such a profession turned his stomach. 

Eventually a man entered the compound to begin the viewing. He was a large man, dressed in expensive clothing and adorned with jewellery. The look of contempt he passed over the waiting slaves gave Ilya a good idea as to the man’s personality. 

He was slow to move down the line, inspecting slaves and picking a few out that he liked the look of, most likely to choose between later. As he drew nearer, Ilya watched with a morbid sense of fascination at the way he inspected them, forcing open their mouths, pushing aside bits of clothing to get a better view. He stopped to take a good look at Luvanya who stood to Ilya’s left, pulling aside her tunic to expose her still-growing breasts.

Ilya didn’t realise he had been staring at the man until eyes turned to him with a look of anger. He anticipated the attack but could do nothing when the man smacked him in the mouth.

“How dare you look at me!”

He could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. 

“Is there a problem?” 

Farak, who had been following down the line, approached quickly, eager to press a sale.

“This slave looked at me.”

“Ah, forgive us, he’s new. I only acquired him yesterday.”

The man’s face wrinkled into a sneer.

“You should send him back where you found him. Filthy creature. I trust he will be punished?”

Farak nodded to two of the guards and Ilya’s arms were grabbed, forced behind his back. He was taken away from the group, his tunic pulled from his torso, and then forced to kneel in the dirt. 

“How many strikes would please you?”

“Make it ten.”

He could still see the man watching as the first blow from what felt like a cane struck him on the back. The pain was insubstantial; he had felt worse a hundred times before. It would have been so easy to turn and kill them for treating him in such a way. The real trial was kneeling and accepting his punishment, forcing himself to be still.

His back stung by the seventh stroke but there was no blood. They were hitting him hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to damage the merchandise. Once the tenth had landed, Ilya was pulled to his feet once more.

“I trust you are appeased?” 

The man nodded.

“Then let us carry on. Guards, take him back to the pens.”

Ilya sat still in the cage for some time after the guards had left, contemplating his punishment. It was a way to stop anybody wanting to buy him, to play up whenever they showed interest. Some liked a challenge but most wanted a slave that was already broken and obedient, willing to obey their every command without rebellion. If he could manage to act up and avoid being sold, then he would be able to stay at the compound long enough to find Rynor and dispatch him. He had a feeling his assassin’s discipline would come in use in the following days.

 

“Ilya!”

Luvanya moved towards him as soon as she was pushed back into the pen, worry in her eyes. He was glad she hadn’t been purchased; who knew what the man would have done to her?

“Are you alright?”

He felt a pang of sympathy. She seemed like such a nice girl, too nice to be a slave; she probably wouldn’t last. Ilya nodded. “I’m fine. And you are well?”

She seemed confused. “But…the caning?”

He let her move around him and push up the back of his tunic. He couldn’t see the damage but could imagine what it would look like; dark with bruises and long, red marks. It still hurt, a dull ache, but it was easily forgotten.

“It must really hurt, how do you stand it?”

He didn’t reply until she moved around to face him once more, staring up into his eyes with concern on her face.

“It’s…I’ve had much worse.”

She seemed willing to let the issue drop, thankfully. As she moved to sit down Ilya leaned against the bars to look around the room, at the other slaves in their pens. It had been such a long time since he’d felt so helpless. It served as an all too real reminder of what life had been like before, and the beatings and humiliation he had suffered. And now they were all suffering too, treated like animals and then hauled away to live the rest of their probably short lives on their knees. He would set them free once it was all over. While Rynor was dying in a pool of his own blood, Ilya would see to it that his people would get away, try to return to their lives back in Silas. Back home. For them, at least. It had been a long time since he’d thought of Silas as his home. He would see to it that Luvanya got away safely; she was too young for this life.

There was little else to do but settle down to sleep, however much of it he could get. He had found the previous night that he was too much on his guard to sleep properly, too easily stirred at the slightest noise, fingers groping on reflex for weapons that weren’t there. He sat down anyway, shifting into the corner of the pen and lying on his side. It was getting cold and he couldn’t help the shiver that ran through his body as the chill of the stone floor soaked through his clothing.

He had just closed his eyes when the noise of someone shifting closer made him look up. Luvanya curled up next to him, offering him an edge of the thin blanket she had.

“We can share the heat,” she said, moving close enough that the blanket covered both of them, but not too close. “You shouldn’t be shivering in the cold with your back like that.”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t want to like her, didn’t want to form any attachments that might make his job harder, but he couldn’t help but be drawn towards the girl that had nothing but still gave what she could. A friendly face certainly made the hell of the pens a little easier. 

Ilya wanted it to be over. His life with the assassins was certainly not luxurious but it was enough. A warm place to sleep, the comfort of being safe and somewhere he could call home. He hoped it wouldn’t be too long until he was back there, free of slavery and with Rynor’s blood on his hands. 

 

He awoke just as the sun was breaking out across the sky, scattering the darkness with bright morning rays. He had been waking early for such a long time that his body did it naturally, unwilling to let him waste precious hours with unnecessary sleep. 

He could barely remember how he had come to be a slave, only that it had been entirely different to Rynor’s camp. There had been no viewings, no being locked away with other slaves to wait until they were chosen. Ilya had been torn from his home, from his life, given up by his parents. He had so few memories of home, only a glimpse of his father, a necklace his mother had worn, the view from the window in his bedroom. Perhaps if he had wanted to find it again he could but it would do nothing. It hadn’t been his home for many years and it would never be again. His home was with the assassins where he would stay until his final days. 

They had turned out to be his salvation. From the turmoil of slavery he had fallen into a hopeless existence, penniless and starving, stealing whatever he could to survive. It was by chance that he had ended up in Nadoa, accepting a trader’s offer to take him away from Silas, away from his bitter past. The man had seemed nice but grew bored on the long journey and demanded payment from Ilya as frequently as it pleased him, using his body while he lay still and tried to block it out. He had given the man the slip as soon as they had landed and ran on into the strange new world with nothing to his name.

As it turned out, he had a natural talent for thievery. He had always been good at watching people, noticing things, and he soon learned how the traders peddled their wares, where they would be at certain times, what sort of things would draw their attention. At times he would wait for a rich prospective customer to draw the merchant’s gaze and then slip a few things from his cart. At other times it was easy enough to create a distraction.

When stealing food grew too easy, Ilya moved on to other things, trying his hand at the coin purses people would wear at their belts. An accidental bump, a quick slip of his knife through the leather strap holding the purse would be all it took. It was easy enough to blend into the crowd when he had his prize, skulk away to a hidden place to count his winnings. He never lived well on the coin he stole, he didn’t like to take more than he needed, but at least it saw him fed, watered and occasionally gave him a roof over his head.

It had been sunny on the day when it had all changed, the heat beaming down across the land. Most of the people had taken to wearing thinner, lighter clothes but Ilya had noticed a man in black walking amongst them, a hood drawn over his head. He was covered from head to toe and Ilya had to wonder how he withstood the heat of the day.

Curiosity had always been his weakness. Instead of searching for prospective targets, Ilya chose to follow the man, to see where he would go. It was a game he sometimes played, trying to guess where the person was going before they got there. He simply enjoyed the freedom of being able to roam where he wished, to explore whatever he wanted and the man had piqued his curiosity.

Ilya followed the man through the throngs of people until they were alone. He kept to the alleyways, hiding behind what he could and following the man at a distance. Eventually the man stopped, standing still for some time before he turned.

“Come out.”

Ilya’s first instinct was to freeze, to stay still in the hope that the man would move on. Instead he heard footsteps move towards his hiding place and he straightened up, preparing to flee. By the time the man reached where he had been standing, Ilya had vanished, gone back to familiar territory and the safety of crowds.

The incident had been laid to rest for a week before the next event was set in motion. Ilya awoke in the middle of the night, the darkness filling the alley where he had chosen to sleep. The moon was a sliver in the sky, casting little light, bathing everything in pitch black. But there was something there, a shape that was darker than the night crouching in the mouth of the alleyway. He feigned sleep for a time, watching the shape through barely open eyes to see what it would do. It was still for a long time until another shape joined it and he could hear the two of them talking in hushed tones.

He had learned enough of their language to understand, but their voices were quiet and he could barely make out anything. Perhaps they had been sent to kill him, a retribution for his sins. But he wasn’t ready to die. Ilya took the opportunity while they were talking to spring from his sleeping place, clambering up the pile of empty crates onto the low roof of a building. He had come to know the place well, and he found his feet moving automatically across the rooftops and then down onto the street. Of his attackers, he could see no sign but he let his feet carry him onwards until he was out of breath and had to stop.

It took them a while to find him again and he was able to lead them on a chase around the city, using his knowledge to find him hiding places or shortcuts. It had to end, though. As he turned a corner a hand had grabbed his arm, shoving him back against the wall and a weight leaned upon him. He found himself looking into a shadowed face and then…nothing.

When he awoke he found himself somewhere else entirely, lying on something soft in a warm room. There was a man sitting next to the bed, and in the doorway two figures, perhaps the two that had been pursuing him. 

As he sat up the figure sitting next to the bed pushed down his hood, revealing the face of a man perhaps in his late thirties.

“You gave my people quite a run around,” he said, his voice thick with the Nadoan accent that Ilya still found so strange. When he didn’t reply, the man leaned a little closer. “You do understand Nadoan?”

Ilya nodded.

“Good. Let me begin by telling you that I am impressed. There aren’t many that can give a Shade the slip.” He indicated to one of the two at the door. Though their faces were hidden, Ilya could see that one was male and one was female. The male had a red sash adorning his waist, the female a blue one, but other than that there were no differences in their apparel. 

“I first noticed you following me on the outskirts of the city,” the man continued, “how long had it really been?”

“Since the marketplace.”

The man smiled.

“A talent, then. You’re Silaen, hm?” Ilya nodded. “You’re a long way from home. What are you doing here?”

Silence. He had always been taught that silence was a virtue, that to listen was better than to speak. Let them talk at him; tell him why he was there, what they wanted.

“Of course you don’t trust us.” The man sat back in the chair, looking as if he was thinking. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

Again, silence, it had seemed to last for a long time. Eventually, the man rose from the chair.

“Well my name is Master Davix, should you desire to speak with me. Please, get some rest. I will have someone bring you some food and water. I have a matter I wish to discuss with you when you are feeling more talkative. There will be two people just outside the door, please ask them to fetch me if you find you change your mind.”

It was the beginning of everything, the first day of the rest of his life. As he lay down again to take advantage of the soft warmth of the bed, he had no idea of what would be ahead of him, of how things would change, of the future that awaited him.


	6. Chapter V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rade pays Ilya a visit

The memory of the warm, soft bed and the feeling of being safe was a world apart from the cold danger of the slave pens. There was no threat from the slaves themselves, each too scared for their own lives, hunkered down in corners to avoid attention, but beyond the walls was uncertainty. It was something Ilya had come to detest as an assassin. They planned so meticulously, preparing for every eventuality with a possible escape route and the certainty of a dagger’s thrust was something they all relied on. Life in the slave pens was guess work; anything could happen. The only certainty there was that at the end of it all Rynor would be dead, brought down by his own greed. 

Luvanya had moved closer in the night, her back pressed along his front, sharing his warmth. Soon it would begin to heat up in the dark, enclosed room, but for now the chill of the night still clung to the stone floor, making Ilya glad for the girl’s presence.

The marks on his back were a dull ache, one that would have been easily forgotten had he been out working, but he could find little now to take his mind off it. He found his thoughts drifting to the mercenary compound. Perhaps he could climb the wall closer to the main building and find a window to enter, sneak to Mercer’s chambers and wait to surprise the man when he was done with his work. After their last encounter it would be good to have an opportunity to be able to show his skill at stealth and secrecy. 

It wasn’t long before the other slaves began to awaken, each one miserable to be facing a new day in captivity. He would see them smile when he freed them. He wished he could tell them that they would see good times again, that they wouldn’t be slaves forever.

Ilya took a little food when the slaves were fed, his stomach growling at him. He wasn’t used to eating an excessive amount but there was always food at the assassin’s compound. It was vital for them in their line of work, it gave them strength and endurance. He supposed strength and endurance weren’t things the slavers were looking for. They were to stay weak and helpless, too tired, too hungry to fight back.

Another viewing had been arranged for the morning and Ilya was glad to see that he was passed over when it came to selection. Luvanya was taken once more along with a number of young girls and women from amongst the pens. He moved to the tiny, barred window once they had left, looking out into the courtyard to see them lined up ready for inspection. He wondered if Luvanya would come back; hoped she would. 

“You won’t want to watch them soon enough.” Ilya turned his head to find the older man watching him. “Each one of them takes away another of us, someone you might know. Maybe it’ll be your turn soon. Do you think you could handle life as a slave, boy?”

Ilya bit back a retort. He had spent fifteen years as a slave, treated like shit, beaten for the smallest mistake. Even as a young child. He had grown up knowing nothing more than a life of servitude.

“What were you before here?” the man continued. “A thief? Guess that’d explain those scars you’ve got. Got caught a few times, did you? Roughed up by soldiers?”

“Why do you care?” Ilya asked eventually.

The man shrugged

“I don’t. You know what I was? I was a farmer, a simple man working the land back home. When they came they took me, my wife and my daughter. Sure we always worked hard but we’d always been free, didn’t have a clue about being a slave, see? But….” The man looked away, down at his hands. “They’ve both gone now. Sold. To people like that.”

He jerked his head towards the window, drawing Ilya’s attention back to the viewing. There were two people moving down the line, a man and a woman. The man hung back while the woman inspected each slave she had an interest in. Perhaps they had heard that female slaves were generally easier to handle, perhaps they were looking for a toy for the bedroom. Whatever their motives, they were buying a human being, someone who had once been free. 

Ilya wished he had the time to hunt down every single slave that Rynor had sold and free them. Those that had already gone and would be sold before he had a chance to end it all would be the unlucky ones, forced into a life of servitude. But he would have no time even to rest, let alone track them all down. He could only hope that Briden would take a continued interest and could be persuaded to do it for him. The man in the cell with him wouldn’t be going home, not until he had found his wife and child. But in a strange country with no friends, no money, he wouldn’t get very far.

Ilya found himself relieved when Luvanya was shoved back into the cell. She looked a little shaken, her skin pale.

“Are you alright?” he asked as she settled down on the floor. The girl looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“It was almost me. They almost took me with them. They took…Katarina instead. She’s only thirteen.”

He had no words for her; there were none that would make it all better. In the end all the words he could say would amount to nothing, the only thing that mattered was her own strength. It was the only thing that could get her – any of them – through it. It was the only thing that had kept him going for fifteen years, his unwillingness to give up. He could only hope that she had the same resolve.

 

Five days later saw Ilya lying on his side in the pale light of morning, his back on fire, his head thumping. His own resolve had been tested more than once and he had had to take a punishment to avoid the interest of potential buyers. The first had been more lenient, asking for only six strokes but the second had been cruel, asking for twenty-five. As one of the slavers counted off the numbers, the pain had grown in intensity, spiking through his body. It had taken everything he had not to cry out.

He used to cry when he had been beaten, back in the beginning. But he had soon learned that crying only earned him more beatings and that the key was silence, no matter what. Perhaps the buyer had been disappointed by his silence, requesting five more strokes to finish his punishment. His back had been raw and bloody by the end of it, he could feel the blood sliding down, saw it dripping onto the ground when he was forced to his feet. 

Now, two days after the beating, the pain had dulled but it was still intense, difficult to tear his mind from. The slightest brush against the bars of the cage or the floor set off a chain of agony ripping through him and he had taken to lying as still as he could, curled on his side. 

They had seen to his wounds, obviously didn’t want him getting ill and dying, smearing a foul smelling ointment onto his back. It had stung, seeping into the open wounds, but it seemed to have done the trick. There was no more blood and Luvanya assured him that they appeared to be healing. He could only hope that he was strong enough should Rynor make an appearance. 

He was feeling better by the time night rolled around but found himself restless. While everyone else slept, Ilya paced the small floor of the cage, wishing for freedom. He didn’t like being confined, locked away in a tiny space with little light or air. He wanted to get out, to run, to climb, to do the job he had been sent to do instead of having to endure the endless waiting.

As he paced the floor for what felt like the hundredth time there was a noise at the far end of the room, a door opening; footsteps coming towards him. He could barely make out the person in the gloom. 

“Hello, precious.”

He watched the man warily as he approached the cage, fumbling with the ring of keys in his hand for the right one. Ilya didn’t know what to do as the door was swung open and his arm was grabbed in Rade’s meaty hand.

“You and me are going to have a bit of fun.”

After he’d locked the cage, Rade headed back towards the door, dragging Ilya with him. He knew he couldn’t resist, couldn’t shout for help and risk his position. He would have to wait and see what Rade wanted, though he already had a good idea.

The man took him through another door into a long corridor. The only illumination came from the moon filtering through the small windows, casting patches of light across the darkness. At the end of the corridor was a small room and Rade pushed Ilya in ahead of him before stepping in and locking the door. 

“I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you,” Rade said, stepping closer. A brief frown came across his face when Ilya didn’t step back, afraid, but it soon passed. “Was waiting for the right time, you see.”

He had to assume that Rade didn’t think he spoke Nadoan and that the words issued from the man’s lips were just noises to him. He wondered why he even bothered speaking; perhaps it was an act to scare his victim.

Ilya stiffened as Rade stepped closer, placing a hand on his neck. The man tried to force his head back, perhaps to move in for a kiss, but Ilya resisted, pushing the hand off of him and stepping away. A shaft of light from the window reflected off of something on Rade’s belt. A knife. 

“Now don’t make things hard for me, precious.” Rade moved closer, backing him into a corner. “We’re just having a bit of fun. You don’t need to get hurt.”

When Rade’s hand made a grab for his backside, Ilya knew he had to do something. He wasn’t going to let the man rape him for the sake of work; there would be other opportunities to kill Rynor should he be discovered. He decided to go for it and ducked under Rade’s arm, grabbing the knife in the process.

“I don’t think it’s me being hurt that you should worry about,” he said, watching the realisation dawn in the man’s eyes. He was a little slow.

“You speak Nadoan?” Rade’s eyes fell to the knife in his hands. “Wait wait, you don’t want to be doing anything rash, do you?”

Ilya shrugged.

“It depends on how well you cooperate.”

It felt good to have the weight of the weapon in his hands. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t his dagger, but it would do in a pinch.

Rade held up his arms.

“I’ll do what you want, don’t hurt me.”

Always cowards, his type of people. They would bully and hurt others but only when the odds were stacked in their favour. When things were tipped they would beg, plead, run away.

Ilya wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t just go back to his cage and act as if things hadn’t happened; Rade was bound to tell someone. They would come for him, drag him out of the cage, maybe kill him. On the other hand, he couldn’t kill the man. The body would be found and everyone would be on high alert, suspicious of everything. There was only one option.

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you, understand?”

Rade nodded, eyes flicking between Ilya’s face and the knife in his hand.

“First things first, you’re going to put me back in the cage and you’re going to lock it up.” He could almost see Rade trying to process the information. “Then you’re going to run."

“Run?”

Ilya nodded.

“You’re going to go away from here and you’re never going to come back. And you won’t tell anyone what happened here. Do you want to know why?”

The man swallowed thickly, looking as if he didn’t want to ask the next question.

“Why?”

Ilya moved in closer, pressing the edge of the knife against Rade’s throat. 

“Because if I ever see your face again, I will kill you. If I hear your name again, I will hunt you down. And if you ever tell anybody what happened here, you will die a slow and agonising death. Is that clear?”

“Y…yes.”

“Good.” Ilya slipped the knife into the waistband of his trousers. It would come in handy should he run into Rynor; he had been wondering where he would get a weapon from. “Now take me back to the cage and then leave.”

He walked ahead of the man on the way back to the pens, confident that he wouldn’t try to attack. Though he did seem like the type to take advantage of a turned back, he knew Ilya had the knife.

When he was back in the cage, Ilya turned to find Rade still standing there, watching him.

“Where should I go?” he asked and Ilya simply shrugged.

“I don’t care. Now go before I change my mind about sparing you.”

It was satisfying to see the way that Rade hurried away, desperate to get some distance between them. He was taking a risk in letting the man go, trusting him to leave without saying anything to anyone but he had a feeling that it would go to plan. Rade obviously cared more for his life than his job.

Thankfully no one had awoken and Ilya settled back down onto the floor with a sigh. It felt good to know he had a weapon, that he could defend himself if needed. He could feel the coldness of the blade pressed against his side as he lay; it was comforting. It reminded him of home.


	7. Chapter VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment comes

Chapter VI

“How are you feeling?”

Ilya looked round as Luvanya sat down next to him, torn from his thoughts. He was beginning to really like her and that was a bad thing, always a bad thing. Don’t form attachments, get the job done, don’t give the enemy anything to work with. With any luck she would never be in danger; no one would know who he was until the final, crucial moment.

“I am better, thank you. The pain has almost gone.”

She gave him a sweet, shy smile. It made him think of his family. He had had a younger sister once; she would be older than Luvanya by now, but he had to wonder how things would have been had they grown up together. Perhaps he would have had the same warm, protective feeling he got about Luvanya.

“You’re not a farmer or a servant, are you?” she asked, laying her head on his shoulder. “You’re too rebellious. What did you do before you came here?”

Ilya was silent for a moment. What could he tell her?

“I was a slave once,” he replied finally. “A long time ago.”

“For how long?”

It had seemed like a life time.

“Fifteen years.”

Her smile had gone and in its place was a mask of sadness. Luvanya was a girl who really wore her emotions, she was too sweet and innocent; a life of slavery would ruin her.

“And now?”

Ilya sighed, unsure what to say. The seconds ticked by and he stared into her face wanting to tell her the truth, but he couldn’t. 

He was saved from answering by men entering the room, fanning out amongst the pens to pick out slaves. Another viewing, then.

“You.” One of them jabbed a finger at Ilya, and he rose slowly, surprised at their choice. They had been avoiding sending him out on viewings lately since he always seemed to get into trouble.

Luvanya’s touch lingered on his arm for a few seconds before the man opened the door and yanked Ilya out. The few others that had been chosen were all young men, ones that still had defiance in their eyes, that looked as if their spirit hadn’t quite been broken yet. Perhaps the buyer was someone who liked a little fight; it could be a problem.

Ilya cast his eye over the collection of slaves as they stood waiting. Most were around his age, but they had all led such different lives. It was likely that none of them had ever felt the sting of slavery before, of servitude to a cruel master. Since they had all been taken from Silas, he had to assume they had been living as simple folk; working the land, living in bliss with wives and children. It was a life that Ilya would never have but he didn’t hate them for it. 

One of the young men saw Ilya looking and gifted him with a small smile. They all knew him by now and he had found in a strange way that he had earned their respect; taking his punishments with no fuss, never showing weakness.

Ilya tore his gaze away when a man entered the courtyard. He was about thirty-five, decked out in the finest, most expensive clothing, with his white-blond hair shining in the midday sun. He wasn’t bad to look at but there was something about him, something distasteful. Good men didn’t buy slaves, let alone ones that needed breaking. The man was probably here for a challenge, to buy himself a project. Relentlessly jabbing at his slave until the day came when he finally broke and withered away into obedience. Then he would have served his use. 

Ilya wasn’t sure what to do; his usual method of escaping purchase would likely not work. Perhaps it would even make him more appealing. Maybe feigning obedience would be the key to turning the man’s attentions away but the slavers would tell him stories, he would see the marks on Ilya’s back and know what he was really like. 

Farak followed the man as he made his way slowly down the line, inspecting each slave. The slaver was talking quickly, trying to get out as much information about each slave as he could, even encouraging the man to take more than one. The blond man wrinkled his nose at some slaves, passed by others but pointed to one every now and then.

“Perhaps this one, put him aside.”

When they reached Ilya, he stood looking down at the dirt, hoping that the man would pass him by. Instead a hand grasped his chin, forcing his head upwards.

“This one’s pretty. Tell me about him.”

A smile lit up Farak’s face. He was probably glad that someone had finally taken an interest in Ilya; perhaps it would get him off the slaver’s hands.

“He was sold to us by a trader. Came to us with marks on his back like he’d been punished before.”

Farak forced Ilya to turn around and pulled up the back of his tunic.

“And these newer marks?”

“He’s been disobedient since he got here; we’ve had to punish him more than once.”

Ilya allowed Farak to turn him around again and forced himself to divert his gaze away from the buyer, not wanting to make eye contact less it give him an interest.

“Look how he diverts his gaze.” The man laughed. “It’s not out of subservience, I expect, but defiance.”

Farak nodded eagerly.

“Yes, defiance. It is what you’re looking for?”

The man leaned closer, inspecting Ilya’s face, touching his cheeks, his lips.

“It is true that I wish for a slave with a little…kick. It’s so boring when they do everything you say without question.”

“Then may I recommend this one, my lord?”

A lord. That would explain the finery and the air of pomposity the man exuded.

“Yes, you may. Put him aside.”

Ilya was forced out of the line as the man moved on, taken over to the small huddle of slaves that had been singled out. There were four of them so far and Ilya sighed to think that one of them would be leaving with the man. One of them would have his spirit broken, his rebellious nature snuffed out. But it wouldn’t be Ilya; he couldn’t come this far only to fail.

There were five left in the end, five set aside to decide between. Ilya didn’t know the others, he’d only seen glimpses of them during previous viewings and he had to wonder what they’d done to receive their rebel statuses. 

“Why isn’t Rynor here?” he heard the lord asking as he moved over to make the choice. “He told me that he would show me the slaves personally.”

“Mr. Rynor will be here tomorrow, my lord, to present you with whichever slave you have chosen.”

Perhaps his chance had finally come. In all the time he had spent at the slave compound, he had never laid eyes on Rynor. But to hear that the man would finally be making an appearance. Ilya knew what he had to do.

He looked away as the man came to inspect him again, fighting the hands that tried to grasp him to get a closer look. Eventually the man got a firm hold of him, taking his jaw in a vice-like grip to lean over him.

“I’ll take this one. I will enjoy breaking him in.”

“Excellent!”

Ilya stepped back when the man released him, looking down at the ground and trying to form his new plan in his head. It would be his chance, his one chance.

“I’ll have him prepared for you, my lord. By the time you come tomorrow to collect him, he will be far more presentable.”

The man nodded.

“See that he is. We’ll discuss the payment tomorrow, Farak.”

After the lord had gone, Farak grasped Ilya by the arm.

“Finally rid of you,” he hissed into the assassin’s ear. “You’ll fetch a good price, too.” He straightened up, gesturing for one of his men to come closer. “Take him to one of the rooms for now; see to it that he gets a wash tomorrow, some new clothes. We want him to look presentable for his new master.”

Ilya lay down to sleep that night on a thin, straw mattress, alone in a small room. They had shoved him in and then left him to himself, giving him time to think about what was going to happen. It was probably the time when most slaves sat and contemplated their bleak futures, what life would be like now that they had been sold, but not for Ilya. It gave him the chance to think about the day to come, how things would change. How he would take the knife and use it to end the life of an evil man, how he would finally set the other slaves free. It would be a good day, a bloody day.

 

They came for him early but he was already awake, watching the door. He was fed a proper meal for the first time since he had arrived and then taken to have a bath, to wash the filth of the pens from his body. The water wasn’t hot but it was clean enough for him to almost enjoy himself as he soaped the dirt from his frame. When the guard wasn’t looking, he secreted the knife amongst his new clothes to slide into his waistband when he put them on.

He felt better once he had dried off and was in the new, clean clothes with the knife a solid weight against his side. He was prepared for what was to come. Though he had spent a few weeks in confinement, his body would know what to do when the time came. The intricate dance of an assassin in combat came naturally to him now, ducking and weaving through his opponents to deal his deadly blows.

The morning was bright and Ilya stepped out into the sun feeling the best he had felt since he had arrived. The sun’s glow warmed his skin as he stood in the courtyard to await Rynor and the lord’s arrival to the compound. 

Rynor came first, sweeping in through the gates as if he were the most important man in the world. Ilya had never seen him before but he’d known him right away, could tell from the way that he held himself who he was. He spent a time in Farak’s office, perhaps talking business.

It was a while later when the lord finally arrived, his coach rolling to a stop within the walls. The horses stood patiently, waiting until they were needed and Ilya found that he missed Inna. She was just a horse but she was a comfort to him. He would be seeing her again very soon.

Rynor came out to greet the blond haired man, and though Ilya couldn’t hear what they were saying, he could see their body language, their gestures. Rynor feigned politeness when Ilya could tell he just wanted to get it over and done with. Perhaps Rynor was a very busy man; perhaps the exchange was eating into his schedule.

“Wait here, my lord,” Ilya heard Rynor say as they drifted closer, “I’ll see if your new slave is prepared to your liking.”

This was it, the moment he had been waiting for. 

He watched as Rynor moved closer, stopping in front of him and looking down at him with distaste clear on his face. The man reached out to inspect him tentatively as if he couldn’t bear to touch a slave – or perhaps a Silean. When he had finally finished he stood looking into Ilya’s eyes for a moment.

“I’ve heard about you,” he said, speaking despite the fact that he thought Ilya couldn’t understand. “What a pain you were. You Sileans are disgusting, filthy creatures.” He spat on the ground at Ilya’s feet.

Perhaps he was expecting fear, but shock passed across his face when Ilya gave him a smile.

“Wh…” was all he managed before the knife tore through the flesh of his chest, seeking its destination. He was dead before he hit the ground.

A stunned silence fell upon the compound, even the slavers at Ilya’s sides didn’t react immediately. By the time they gathered their senses to grab for him, Ilya was behind them and they were dispatched as quickly as their leader had been.

There were still men left, perhaps ten in total within the compound’s walls, not to mention the lord that had come for him. The silence had finally broken and men ran at Ilya with weapons drawn and rage in their eyes. His body knew what to do, dodging the sword swung at him, ducking under the fist that came for his face. He swept out with his foot, knocking one to the ground, and Ilya was on him before he had the chance to move, sinking the knife into his flesh. He sprang up quickly enough, evading the swipe of a sword, using the man’s momentum against him to make him fall. 

They weren’t fighters, not really. Each man had been chosen for his strength, the way his size would intimidate the smaller slaves and the two things that really mattered – agility and intelligence – were severely lacking. It was too easy to take them down, to shove the knife into their flesh and feel the blood spurt from their bodies.

With the guards dead there was only one man left. Farak had withdrawn to hide in his office when the fighting had started and Ilya strode towards the building after him. He stopped when he heard a noise, a whimper, from behind a pile of crates and found the lord crouching there, staring up at him with fear in his eyes.

“Don’t kill me!” he cried, scrambling to his feet to press himself back against the wall. “I’ll give you money, I’m very wealthy.”

“I don’t want your money.” Ilya narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “None of this is about money; it’s about the freedom of my kind from people like you. You would have taken me as a slave and tortured me, tried to break me.”

The man seemed to shrink as Ilya stepped closer once more.

“I’m sorry,” he wailed, raising his hands to protect his face from a blow that never came. Ilya stood staring at him, wondering what to do with him. He couldn’t be allowed to continue as he was; he would simply go and find another slave whose life he could ruin.

“I’ll let you live but there’s something you have to do in return.”

“Anything!”

Ilya moved closer, pressing the point of the knife against the man’s chest.

“You’re never going to own a slave again. Not a Silaen, not a Nadoan. Nobody. Slaves aren’t there by choice, they are all torn from their homes and forced to serve people like you, to cave to your every demand. But you’re never going to own slaves again because I will find out and I will kill you. Of course.” Ilya sighed. “A man like you can’t do things for himself so here’s what you’ll do. You’ll employ servants, people who actually want to work for you. You’ll pay them well, you’ll treat them well…and you and I will never have a problem. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

“You won’t speak of this to anyone. As far as they’re concerned you’ve just decided to become a new and better person.” He leaned closer, pressing the tip of the knife down harder. “Remember what I’ve told you. And don’t think you can hide things from me, I have eyes everywhere. Oh and…” He turned suddenly, beginning his walk towards Farak’s office. “leave the coach.”

He didn’t stop to watch the man run, his task was more important. He found Farak in his office, rifling frantically through his desk.

“Farak.”

The man whirled around at the sound of his voice, brandishing the dagger he held in his hands. 

“Stay back, you demon. I knew you weren’t like the rest of them. You didn’t make any noise when they whipped you, nothing!” Ilya moved slowly, circling the man like he was prey. “I’m not going to die here, I don’t deserve it. I only ever did what Rynor told me to.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Ilya said, watching the fear in the man’s eyes. “You knew the misery you were bringing to these people, how they had been captured and brought here against their will, how their new masters would treat them.”

“No!” Farak ground the heel of his palm against his forehead as if trying to rub a thought from his mind. “I didn’t think…didn’t think about it! Didn’t have to know what the buyers would do with them.”

Ilya took the distraction to pounce on the man, forcing him back onto his desk. He yanked the dagger from the man’s hands and held it up to his throat, pushing the sharp edge into tender flesh.

“You had to have known. Slaves worked to death. Pleasure slaves raped again and again. Whipped when they disobeyed. It’s time to die for your choices.”

Farak tried to cry out but Ilya cut the noise short with the dagger, slicing it across the man’s throat. He felt the blood splatter onto his face but he didn’t care. It was done, all of it. 

Ilya wiped his face with the dead man’s sleeve and began his search of the office, looking for two things. The first – a ledger containing the names of all the slaves that had been sold and who they had been sold to – he found lying next to Farak, the cover painted with his blood. The second – the keys to all the pens – he found on a hook by the door.  
With the ledger under his arm Ilya made his way back out into the sunshine, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of the morning and the silence in the courtyard. The gate was still open where the lord had made his hasty escape but the horse and carriage was still standing where it had been, the horses patiently waiting for instruction. 

There was a stable near the gate that housed a number of horses. Ilya saddled one up, slipping the ledger into one of the saddlebags before leading the horse back into the courtyard. He took a small book and a ring – a small token that he took from each of his targets - from Rynor’s body, slipping them into the saddlebag before finally making his way to the pens to free the others. They would have to find their own way back home; he didn’t have the time to escort them.

Ilya only remembered the blood on his clothing when he walked into the room, seeing faces turn towards him, expressions turning to fear or confusion at the sight of him. He unlocked his own cage first, letting the door swing open before moving onto the next without a word.

“What’s going on?” 

Ilya paused, his hands halfway to the next lock and turned to look back at the older man from his cell who had moved into the open doorway.

“You’re free to leave.”

A look passed the man’s face, an expression of relief that soon faded into confusion.

“The slavers?”

“Dead.”

Once he had unlocked all of the cages, Ilya left to see if there was another room of slaves. He found a smaller one at the other end of the courtyard and unlocked the doors before going back outside.

The slaves had begun to filter into the courtyard, blinking in the bright morning sun. There were a few cries of terror at the bodies but they quietened as Ilya walked amongst them to head back towards the horse he’d saddled up ready for his departure.

As he climbed onto the horse’s back, Luvanya and the older man appeared at his side.

“What have you done?” the man asked, but he didn’t seem angry for once, his voice softer.

“What had to be done,” Ilya replied. He lifted his gaze to the collection of slaves. “I was a slave once; I know what it’s like. I know how they treat us. I didn’t have a choice back then just as you didn’t now. I came here to do a job and now these men lie dead so that you can have your freedom. Go home, there’s money in the office, go and lead your lives.”

He began to turn the horse to leave but Luvanya stopped him, staring up with her eyes wide.

“Where are you going?” 

“Home. Where you should go.”

He could see tears building up in her eyes.

“I don’t have a home. They burned it down, they killed my father.”

“Someone here will take you in.”

She grasped at his leg in desperation. “I want to stay with you. Ilya, you’ve been so nice to me. Please?”

Ilya sighed, slipping from the horse’s back so that he could stand beside her. The older man hovered behind, obviously waiting for his turn to say something.

“You can’t come with me,” he said quietly, laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You can’t live my life. I’m sure someone here will help you.”

“What about me?” The man spoke up at last. “They’ve taken my wife and my daughter. I can’t leave.”

Ilya sighed.

“Alright. Come with me. I’ll take you to the man who sent me here; perhaps he can help you find them.” His gaze fell to Luvanya. “But I want you to take care of her, protect her with your life. I’ll help when I can but I can’t do everything. There are horses in the stables.”

Others approached him as the two of them hurried away, each unwilling to leave as they had loved ones that had already been taken. His only hope was that Briden would find a place for them and, since he already had an interest in freeing the slaves, that he would be able to help them.

There were twelve of them in total. The others had already gone through Farak’s office, taking whatever gold they could find to help them get back home, under strict instructions from Ilya to stay together. He left the bodies lying where they had fallen and turned his back on them, urging his horse down the road towards Dras. Luvanya ended up sharing a horse with him and she sat behind him quietly, her skinny arms wound around his torso.

“I’m Josef,” the older man said, moving his horse closer to Ilya’s own mount. “I must thank you for what you’ve done. And I…I’m sorry for the things I said.”

Ilya nodded, willing to let it go. He was just happy that they were all out of there, free to roam where they wished.

“How did you kill them?” Josef continued. “What are you?” 

“It is my duty.” The words sounded odd coming from his mouth. “I’ve killed to set you free, does it matter what I am?”

Josef gave him a nod and moved his horse away, unwilling to bother Ilya any further.


	8. Chapter VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya goes back to his master

The sky was darkening by the time they reached Dras, and they left their horses to make their way towards Briden’s home. The man wasn’t in the main room when they entered and as the other Silaens shuffled in it soon began to fill. 

“Briden?”

A noise from the back room. Soon enough the man entered, stopping to stare at the group of people filling his shop.

“You’ve returned. Who are all these people?”

“Slaves.” Ilya laid the ledger down on the desk beside the man. “They want to find their loved ones. The transactions are all listed in this book.”

Briden stepped behind the desk to study the book, turning the pages filled with the names of the slaves that had been sold. It would take a long time to rescue them all, more time than Ilya had to spare.

“I’ll leave this with you.”

Briden nodded.

“I don’t have the skills, Ilya, but we’ll find a way. Though I may need your help.”

There was no way he couldn’t offer any. Briden was doing him a great favour by taking it on, willing to help the Silaen people without a second thought even though he wasn’t one of them.

“Can you find room for them?” Ilya asked, waving a hand towards the Silaens gathered behind him. Briden nodded absentmindedly, absorbed in the ledger he was flicking through. “I also found this.” Ilya set Rynor’s small book down on top of the ledger. “I don’t know if there’s anything useful but have a look through it.”

“What will you do now?” Briden asked, eyeing Ilya as he finally tore his attention from the ledger.

“I have to go back to the Order. Where are my things?”

“In the cupboard in the room at the top of the stairs.”

Ilya felt much better once he’d donned his assassin’s clothing, slipping the hood up over his head. He discarded the knife he’d had in favour of his own weapons, settling the heavy belt against his hips. It was a welcome weight.

When he headed back downstairs, he found that Briden had taken the group through to the kitchen to make them food and was conversing with them in his badly pronounced Silaen.

“It will give you a chance to practice the language,” Ilya said, watching them from the doorway. He turned as Luvanya approached.

“You look different, Ilya,” she told him, trying to see his eyes in the darkness of his hood. “Trying to hide who you are.”

“I have to.”

“Can’t you stay?”

He rested his hand on her head, wishing he could stay with them and help but his duties came first. He would come back to visit them and see how they were doing, offer help when he could.

“I can’t.”

He hoped she wouldn’t push the issue further and was relieved when she just nodded, turning away to help with the food preparation. Ilya took Briden to one side.

“I must go now. There are horses tied up just outside the city, the others can lead you there. I packed a little money into the saddlebags to help you take care of everyone. Keep me informed, send messages to Master Davix and he’ll pass them on to me. Let me know if you need my help.”

Briden nodded, lifting a hand to pat Ilya on the shoulder.

“Thank you for your help, Ilya. You must have been through a lot. I’ll make sure everyone is looked after.”

There was little time for goodbyes. He gave Luvanya a short embrace and then turned to go, leaving the shop with the day weighing heavily on his mind. He had freed the slaves but how many more were there still to rescue? Briden was right when he said he didn’t have the skills; if he came up against too much opposition he would crumble. He could only hope that the man would find a way. At least the Silaens were there to lend him assistance.

Inna was happy to see him, whinnying as he stepped up to her pen, stroking her neck. He was glad to see that she had been well cared for; fed, watered, her coat rubbed down. It was on swift hooves that they made their way back to the Order, each wanting to be back within the comfort and safety of home.

 

Ilya saw Beth look round at the clattering of hooves and she left her group of apprentices to approach him as he pulled Inna to a stop and climbed from her back.

“Shade Ilya, you’ve returned. I trust your mission was a success?”

“Yes,” he replied quietly, tiredness washing over him. Now that he was back within the walls of the compound he was safe enough to let the fatigue take him. She seemed to understand and was happy to leave him alone to begin his journey to Davix’s office.

The master assassin was in deep conversation with Master Eliana as he knocked and then entered.

“Ilya.” Davix regarded him for a moment, a frown passing his face as he noted the way Ilya almost wavered on his feet. “Sit.”

He was happy to sink into the seat, feeling like he wanted to lay his head on the desk and sleep the rest of the day away.

“You may give me your full report later, but tell me, is it done?”

Ilya nodded his head. “Rynor is dead.”

“And the slaves?”

“I set them free.”

Davix leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

“I had a message from Mercer while you were gone. I want you to go and see him as soon as you are able.”

“Yes, Master.”

Davix was staring at him, watching his face as if he was trying to learn what had transpired at Rynor’s compound.

“This isn’t over, Ilya,” he said eventually, “I know you won’t drop this.”

“I have to stop my people being enslaved.”

Davix bobbed his head in agreement. “That is to be understood, Ilya, but your loyalty lies first to us. I won’t have this interfering with your work.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Go, go and sleep. Head out at first light.”

An assassin’s work was never done. Ilya rose from the chair to go to the dormitories to sleep but he knew he wouldn’t stay for long. As soon as the sun rose he would be off again to see Mercer and then…who knew? He didn’t expect a break and had never felt the need to ask for one, but after what he had been through, respite would have been nice: the chance to mill about the compound, watch the apprentices training, and the sun track slowly across the sky. But it wasn’t to be.

As his head hit his pillow and he felt sleep trying to claw him under, he could only be grateful that he was back home, back where he belonged, with a warm bed and allies gathered around him.


	9. Chapter VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya pays another visit to Mercer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - there is graphic sex in this chapter

Waking was the most pleasant it had been for weeks. When Ilya opened his eyes, he found himself wrapped in warmth, surrounded by comforting darkness, and his brain took the few blissful moments of half-awareness to remember that he was home. It felt good to get up and stretch, letting his body work out the aches and the kinks. 

His first port of call was the baths and he enjoyed a quiet, relaxing soak, happy that it was too early for anyone else to be there. Though he had washed at the slave compound, this one was more symbolic than cleansing. Washing the memory of the pens from his flesh, letting it slip away with the water.

After dressing and eating his fill, Ilya was ready to leave and he made his way out to the courtyard just as the sun was breaking across the sky. He wasn’t sure what hour it had been when he had fallen asleep, maybe he had only had a short rest, but he was always up early; it was a long ingrained habit. Inna was the same, awake and alert when he came to saddle her for the journey. She nuzzled his hand as he held it out to her, rubbing her soft fur against his palm.

“I missed you,” he told the horse. He knew she didn’t understand but it made him feel better to say it. 

The other assassins were beginning to make their appearances as Ilya rode the horse out into the courtyard towards the gates. Most of them had a day of training ahead of them, a constant struggle to improve their skill in battle. Where most would succeed, there would be a special few that excelled above the others, striving towards greatness. They were the ones that would become Blades, training other Apprentices in turn; the lucky few would become Shades as Ilya had done. There were those that despised him for his advancement through their ranks; it usually took many years to become a Shade, but for Ilya it had been just four. Davix had seen the promise in him from the start, taking a personal interest in his training and it was only natural that one day Ilya would serve directly under him. Perhaps one day Davix would see fit to take a different Shade, but until that day Ilya was happy to do his duty. This life was the best he had ever had.

 

The mercenary compound stood just two days ride from the Order and the sun was halfway through its ascent by the time he arrived. Instead of scaling the walls as he had done on his last visit, Ilya rode up to the main gate, waiting patiently until a mercenary appeared atop the wall to look down on him.

“Mercer told me to come,” Ilya said, watching the man’s face for a moment before he turned to shout down to someone behind the walls. A moment later the gate swung open and Ilya urged Inna into the compound.

“Mercer is in his rooms,” a mercenary told him as Ilya slid from Inna’s back, “I’ll take you to him. Someone will see to your horse.”

They didn’t look like they wanted him to be there, each seemingly uncomfortable with his presence. Ilya had to wonder just what had happened between mercenaries and assassins for relations to turn so sour.

He was led into the main building towards Mercer’s rooms and they stopped just outside while the mercenary knocked at the door.

“Assassin to see you, Boss.”

“Come in.”

The mercenary pushed open the door and signalled for Ilya to go inside before turning to leave them to it.

Mercer wasn’t in the main room and it was a few moments before he pushed the curtain aside from the bedroom. Ilya noted his attire; the man was clad in just a robe as if he had been sleeping, his hair mussed around his head.

“You’ve caught me.” He held his hands up with a smile. “It isn’t often that I sleep late in the mornings, but I like to indulge myself now and then. I don’t suppose that’s something you do, is it?”

“Why did you send for me?” Ilya asked, hoping to get to the point straight away. Instead, Mercer crossed the room to pour himself some water and take a few bites from fruit left on a tray. 

“I always wake up so ravenous. Needs must be sated before the day can go on, hm?”

Ilya sighed, watching as the man finally set down the water and food and crossed over to stand before him.

“So you’ve just come back from Rynor’s slave camp?” he asked, his eyes wandering over Ilya’s body. “How did you fare?”

“I am intact, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Mercer laughed.

“I had no doubt that you would be, little assassin. I am guessing your mission was successful which is why I must present to you a little…predicament.”

There were always complications; nothing was ever as simple as dispatching one man.

“Rynor has friends?”

Mercer sank into a seat, inviting Ilya to join him at the table. He always looked far too relaxed as if he was just happy to let the world move around him and sit and watch it go.

“Not friends, no, but…superiors. I had my men do some digging after your last visit. We all thought that Rynor was as high as it went but this whole franchise, this,” he waved a hand in the air, “imprisonment of your people, it goes higher.”

Of course it would. The Nadoans had an intense hatred for the Silaens, the product of centuries of warring between their nations. The Nadoans wanted Silas for themselves, to bring it into part of their empire and rule over its people but, despite being mostly simple, peaceful folk the Silaens had fought back. Much blood had been spilled on either side and for the past ten years the nations had been at an impasse. Though they hadn’t been warring the hatred was still there; Ilya saw it every day in the faces of everyone he met. As soon as they heard his accent they judged him to be evil.

“There are those who think of your people like animals, Ilya, and would like nothing more than to see them dead or enslaved. That’s what this was about. They set up these slave encampments, taking people from your lands to force them into slavery here. But Rynor isn’t the only one.”

How had he not heard of this problem before? Perhaps he had simply been too absorbed in his own life to notice the suffering of his own people. He sighed, sitting back in his chair, waiting for Mercer to get to the point.

“Rynor’s superiors are bound to notice what has happened at his camp and they’ll start looking for the one that did it. I hope you didn’t leave any loose ends.”

Too many for his own liking. Both Rade and the blond lord could present a problem; perhaps it was time to pay both of them a visit before they told anyone what had happened.

“I’ll work on it,” Mercer continued, pouring himself another cup of water. “I’ll find out names, locations, but there will need to be a lot more killing.”

Of course. The killing never ended.

There was silence when Mercer finished and Ilya sat for a time staring down at the table trying to work things out. There was no way he could do it alone and perhaps Davix wouldn’t be too happy to involve more assassins in the matter.

“I need your help,” he said finally, raising his head to look Mercer in the eye. “I can’t take this down by myself.”

A smile passed Mercer’s face.

“And what do you need help with exactly?”

“Freeing my people.” Davix wasn’t going to like him involving Mercer in his mission. He suspected that his Master would have been happier for Ilya to drop the whole thing and move onto other work, but he couldn’t. “There was a ledger I took from Rynor’s compound; it was full of the names of slaves that have already been sold. I want to return them to their homes but with the threat of Rynor’s associates looming over me I fear I don’t have the time.”

“And where is this ledger?”

“There is a man named Briden in Dras. He was happy to take the ledger and to give shelter to the Silaens that decided they wanted to help but there are too few of them and they are too weak.”

“I see.” Mercer nodded thoughtfully. “So you want me to send my men there to help?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a big favour you ask of me, assassin. One that must be repaid when I have need of it.”

Ilya got to his feet, sensing that the conversation was almost over and it was time for him to be going. There was much to be done and he still needed to give Davix a report of his time as Rynor’s slave.

“I cannot commit my brothers and sisters to you,” he said, watching as Mercer rose to his feet, “but send for me if you have need of my assistance.”

He was halfway before the door before Mercer’s voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

When Ilya turned the man had a strange look on his face and mischief in his eyes.

“Remember when you were here before I said I had one more task for you to perform?”

Ilya nodded and sighed; he had been hoping that it had been forgotten.

“Then perhaps you remember that I told you I would set you to it the next time we met?”

“Yes.”

Mercer stepped closer.

“Then I believe I will have you perform it now, little assassin, while the mood takes me.”

A sense of foreboding passed through Ilya’s body. Whatever Mercer had in mind he had a feeling he wouldn’t enjoy it.

“What do you want from me?”

The man didn’t answer for a time, just stood in front of Ilya and stared down at him with amusement on his face. Ilya stared back, finding himself uncomfortable under the man’s gaze but not willing to back down. 

Mercer suddenly moved, raising a hand to grasp Ilya’s throat. Ilya found his own hand moving automatically to the dagger at his waist, closing around the hilt. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My men wouldn’t take too kindly to it.”

The man leaned closer until Ilya could feel warm breath on his face.

“What are you doing?”

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but still froze in shock as Mercer’s lips pressed against his. He tried to pull away but the man’s hand tightened around his throat and the other grasped his wrist. A tongue pushed against his lips, demanding entrance but he didn’t want to grant it. Ilya wasn’t sure he wanted to go to such lengths for assistance, but the alternative was impossible. 

“Open up, little assassin,” Mercer murmured against his lips. “Or will I have to make you?”

“You take liberties that have not been offered to you.”

Mercer drew back but used his grip on Ilya’s throat to push him until his back hit the wall.

“Who else will you ask for help?” he asked. “Who else would be willing to risk the lives of their men?”

Ilya didn’t know how to reply. It was true; there was no one else that would be willing to help. Briden was too weak to do it on his own and Ilya was only one person. He didn’t want to involve the assassins as they already had so much to do and he had a feeling that most wouldn’t be too happy to help a group of Silaens. They were brothers in arms but Ilya had felt their stares, heard the names they called him when they thought he was gone. They called him a filthy Cothi or a foreign dog and for the most part he ignored it as it wouldn’t do for a high ranked assassin to get worked up over such things. But there were times when he found it hard to ignore the words, the stares, the accusations.

Mercer took advantage of his distraction to press against his lips again, forcing his tongue between them before Ilya could react. There wasn’t much he could do with the man’s body pressing him against the wall, pushing against him with his larger frame, dominating his mouth. He wanted to pull his dagger from his belt and thrust it into Mercer’s back, push the man away from him and run for it, but he needed the man’s assistance. He had been taught to do what was necessary no matter what it took. 

“Have you made up your mind?” Mercer asked him as he pulled back, using his thumb to stroke Ilya’s jaw. He didn’t know how to answer the torturous question; could he give up his pride for the sake of his people? But deep down he knew it was an easy answer and he gave his consent by averting his eyes and nodding once.

“Then I warn you,” the man used his grip on Ilya’s jaw to force him to look upwards, into his eyes, “I am not gentle.”

He hadn’t expected the man to be. There was a heavy feeling in his stomach as Mercer captured his mouth again, like he wanted to be sick. He forced himself to be still as the man’s free hand began to wander over his body, sliding down his side and round to grasp his backside. Fingers dug hard into his flesh; Mercer seemed intent on bruising him.

Mercer released his throat and a moment later fingers were at his belt clasp. It dropped heavily onto the floor and with it went his weapons, his safety. He had carried it for years, even keeping it close while he slept in case he ever had need of it. Mercer next divested him of the row of smaller knives that he had strapped to his thigh, dropping them on the floor on top of his belt. The last comfort to go was his hood, pulled down to rest against his back. 

“It’s a shame to hide yourself behind your hood,” Mercer told him, fingers stroking his face. “You are a rare jewel. So exotic.”

“You don’t need to talk to me like I am some conquest you’re trying to lure between the sheets.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“So you wish me to get straight to the point?” He grinned. “Impatient little thing, aren’t we?”

Ilya didn’t answer, just turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t have to look as Mercer pulled off his sash and began to work on unfastening his tunic. He let the man pull it off over his head and then stood waiting for Mercer’s next move but it never came. When he forced himself to look, he found the man’s eyes wandering over his body, taking in the marks and scars both old and new. Evidence of his time at Rynor’s compound and his life before he joined the Order.

“So you are prone to misbehaving, it seems.”

Again he chose not to reply, to not rise to the mocking bait that Mercer was offering him. A few moments of silence passed between them, and then the man continued working to divest Ilya of the rest of his clothing until he stood naked before him.

Ilya felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time; he felt vulnerable. Even throughout his experience at the slave camp his resolve had remained firm, his mind strong. But standing naked as he was before Mercer’s hungry eyes, he felt helpless, like there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. He had worked so hard to rid himself of his vulnerabilities but they were always there, waiting to rise to the surface; he had just become good at suppressing them.

“Are you always so passive in such matters?” Mercer asked him, grasping Ilya’s hand to press it to his own crotch. Ilya could feel the man’s cock beneath the thin layer of his robe; large and stiff.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, meeting Mercer’s gaze as the man used his own hand to force Ilya’s to move, to caress the hardness between his legs. “Pretend that we are lovers and that this is something that I want to do?”

Mercer laughed.

“If that makes things easier for you, little assassin. I am not taking you unwillingly, that is not something that I do. But it is no matter to me if you will lie there and feign indifference while I fuck you so hard you’ll be limping back to your master.”

He didn’t know what to say to that so stayed quiet as Mercer forced his hand to squeeze harder, stroking from root to tip. Eventually the man gave a sigh and pulled back from Ilya, seemingly had enough with his lack of response. He took the assassin by the arm, pulling him away from the wall to take him towards the curtained off bedroom.  
The bed was unmade from when Mercer had been sleeping, the sheets rumpled. The area was small but it looked homely, like Mercer had taken painstaking care to make it as it was. There was little light filtering into the area once the curtain had been drawn but enough for him to see the evident desire on the mercenary’s face.

“Lie down.”

Mercer watched him for his reaction. It was his chance to resist but could he do know knowing what it would cost him? He must have hesitated for too long as the man moved towards him, firm hands pressing him backwards. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he went over, but his automatic instinct was to fight, to rise and try to gain some ground. As Ilya tried to get up Mercer was on him, forcing him onto the bed, pressing him down with his weight. He opened his mouth to protest but the man took the opportunity, swooping in to steal another kiss from his lips, to force his tongue inside. All the while Mercer ground against him, sliding the length of his cock up and down Ilya’s stomach.

“It’s hard and ready for you,” the man said when he pulled away from the kiss, moving downwards to rub his cock between Ilya’s legs. “It’s been a long time since I had an assassin beneath me. It always was something I enjoyed.”

Ilya turned his head away as the mercenary shrugged off his robe, tossing it aside. He didn’t like being like this; laid out naked and vulnerable where Mercer could see everything. Ilya closed his eyes as the man’s hands wandered over his body, tugging at his nipples, sliding down his stomach, touching his cock. He wasn’t hard, but with the man touching him and the insistent sliding of the cock between his buttocks, he had to wonder if he would be. It did feel good, no matter how much he didn’t want it to. It had been a long time since he’d let anyone fuck him; there had always been more important things to concern himself with. His body didn’t seem to understand that he didn’t want to let Mercer have him; it rebelled against his brain, sending sparks of arousal straight to his cock and he found it hard to stay quiet.

“See, you’re starting to enjoy it.” There was amusement in Mercer’s voice and Ilya could feel himself getting hard as the man’s hand stroked his cock. He didn’t want it; why was his body betraying him?

Perhaps Mercer grew tired of waiting for a response for he suddenly stopped, shifted back. His hands grasped Ilya’s body, digging into his flesh, forcing him to turn over onto his front. As bad as the previous position had been, this one was worse. Now he found himself truly pinned by Mercer’s larger frame, pressed into the mattress.

“I didn’t think you would be so submissive,” Mercer said, leaning over to pick something up. Ilya heard the sound of a stopper being pulled and a moment later fingers were sliding down between his buttocks. “It’s not what you assassins do, is it, submission? I thought you’d be fighting me. But,” Mercer pressed, forcing one finger inside Ilya, “perhaps you’re enjoying it too much to fight.”

Ilya couldn’t stop the moan as the finger slid inside him and he bit down on the side of his hand to avoid issuing another. He didn’t want to give Mercer the satisfaction. Oh but it was hard to stay quiet when another finger was pressed into him, pushing and twisting to loosen him up.

“You’re tight, little assassin.” Mercer sounded amused. “Has it been a long time?”

It had been, but Mercer didn’t have to know that; not since the trader on the ship over from Silas that had used Ilya’s body frequently. He didn’t have time for things like sex in his life as an assassin, in fact he had an inkling that most of his brothers and sisters had simply sunk into abstinence through lack of choice.

Mercer removed his fingers slowly and a few moments passed before he returned. One hand grasped Ilya’s hip, and then Mercer pushed against him, beginning to force the head of his cock past tight flesh and muscle. It hurt, an ache that only seemed to get worse as the man continued to push, not giving him a chance to get used to the feeling. He wanted to tell Mercer to stop, to go slowly, but his pride forced him into silence, to take the seemingly never ending slide of the man’s cock inside him. He was big - long and thick - and Ilya’s muscles protested the intrusion, causing pain to spike through his body. He couldn’t help the soft moan as the man finished sliding inside him and finally stilled.

“Ohh you feel good,” Mercer told him, a breathless huskiness in his voice. “You’re gripping me so tightly.”

Ilya wanted to move, to get away, to push the man off of him but he could only lie still, curling his fingers into the sheets and trying to transcend the pain. Strangely Mercer was still for some time and Ilya found the pain dwindling as his body began to adjust.

He choked back a groan as Mercer suddenly moved, sliding out of him slowly and then pushing back inside. It hurt the first time but as the man did it again and again it became more bearable, even pleasurable. Mercer’s hands were tight around his hips, fingers digging into his flesh and the man began to pick up his pace, putting more force behind his thrusts.

“Do you think you can take more, assassin?” Mercer asked him, using his grip on Ilya’s hips to pull him up onto his knees so that his cock slid in deeper. It brushed Ilya’s prostate and he could barely contain the moan that bubbled up in his throat as pleasure darted through his body.

Mercer didn’t seem to need an answer. He began to fuck Ilya faster and harder, his flesh slapping against the assassin’s backside with each thrust. Ilya found he was unable to contain moans and gasps, the pain increasing along with Mercer’s pace. The man was taking him too harshly, too roughly, fingers digging in too tightly, cock driving in too deeply but he found himself helpless to do anything. He bit down again on his hand to keep the noises in, still unwilling to show any weakness, but couldn’t hold back a long moan as Mercer shifted to rub against his prostate with each deep stroke. His own cock had been softening with the pain but it came back to life at the sensations Mercer forced through his body, hardening against his will.

“Is this hard enough for you?” Mercer asked. “I know you assassins like it rough.”

Ilya couldn’t have answered even if he had wanted to. He couldn’t catch a breath long enough to speak, couldn’t focus his mind long enough to form a sentence. 

Mercer slipped his hand round to grasp Ilya’s cock, stroking firmly, wringing moans from the assassin’s lips. It hurt and felt euphoric at the same time. The dull sting of muscles stretched too far and insides abused by rough thrusting and the buzz of pleasure darting through his body.

He couldn’t help himself. The sudden rush of pleasure was blinding and Ilya felt his body tighten up as he lost himself, releasing into Mercer’s hand with a tight groan. The man, not quite finished, slowed, letting go of Ilya’s cock and using his other hand to grasp the assassin’s hair, yanking his head back, forcing Ilya to push up onto his elbows. He offered his hand, fingers dripping with come, pressing them against Ilya’s mouth until he opened up. He didn’t know what possessed him into licking his own come from the man’s fingers, but Mercer seemed pleased that he had done so, gifting him a pat on the head before winding the digits back into his hair.

The man was almost done; Ilya could feel it in the way his thrusts grew shorter, more erratic. Mercer gripped harder, using the fingers in Ilya’s hair to force his head back and to the side, allowing the man to lean over and sink his teeth into Ilya’s shoulder, his body shuddering as he released into the assassin’s body.

Mercer let go of his hair, allowing him to drop forward onto the bed, chest heaving with heavy, deep breaths. The man stayed inside him for a few moments, trying to catch his breath, and then slid out slowly. 

“You’re so hot and red here now,” Mercer said, fingers stroking between Ilya’s buttocks. He tried not to flinch at the touch, flesh aching and sore now that there was no pleasure to counteract it. “Makes me wish I could take you again and again.”

The man rose from the bed, moving to fetch a cloth for Ilya to clean himself with. They said nothing as each pulled on their clothes, the silence heavy between them. By the time Ilya was fully dressed with his weapons settled back into their positions, Mercer was lounging on a chair in the main room, a pipe in his hand, watching the assassin with a smile on his face.

“Well that was fun, don’t you think?”

Everything hurt. The ache between his buttocks was echoed in the stiffness of his legs, the tenderness of the flesh at his hips where Mercer had pressed fingers into him. He would carry the man’s bruises for some time and looking at them would only remind him of what they had done.

“So you will help?” he asked, eager to depart and be away from Mercer’s obnoxious grin. The man seemed far too happy with himself; languid and sated. 

The mercenary nodded.

“You do make such pretty noises, after all. And it would be remiss of me to not hold up my end of the bargain after we had such a good time together. Though,” the man got to his feet, moving closer, “It would be a shame to never get the chance to have you again.”

Ilya swallowed thickly. He was at this man’s mercy, unable to back out of their arrangement because he needed the help so badly. 

“It depends how much you help me,” he forced himself to say, stepping back away from Mercer’s reach. “I will see if you deserve it.”

The man gave a laugh, retreating again to the desk.

“I like you, little assassin. Very well, our deal is struck. Now go, I’ll send word if I’ve need of you.”

It was on stiff legs that Ilya left the compound. He was glad for the hood hiding his face as his cheeks felt like they were burning with shame as he walked through Mercer’s men to fetch Inna. It was agony riding his horse back; the motions of the animal reminding him just how roughly Mercer had taken him. He hoped the pain wouldn’t take too long to fade; he couldn’t have it interfering with his work.


	10. Chapter IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya ties up some loose ends.

It hadn’t taken long to track the blond lord down and to find out that his name was Melian. Though there had been no information listed about him in the ledger Ilya had given to Briden, there was a note in Rynor’s small book. Evidently Rynor had not liked him in the slightest.

Ilya tracked him to a small town named Oakwood and spent a time asking a few of the townsfolk about him. The reports all came back the same; Melian was not a good man. While most of the people lived in tiny houses, barely making enough to get by, the lord lived in a grand manor, its exquisite luxuries shadowing the town. The people said he ruled over them with an iron fist, and since he owned most of the land that they lived on, they could do nothing to oppose him.

Ilya slipped in the back way, climbing over a wall at the rear of the property. He had waited until night to make his move and all was silent and still; the only sound to be heard was that of nature, the creatures that roamed the darkness as he did. The building was bathed in shadow, the only flicker of light emanated from a room on the ground floor to the side of the building and Ilya took care to avoid it as he searched for a way inside.

He found a loose window and pried it free with dextrous fingers to slip inside, finding himself in what appeared to be a store room. There were piles of dusty boxes stacked up around him but he didn’t stop to see what was inside. What Melian owned was his own business; most of it anyway.

His feet made no sound on the polished floor as he stepped out into the hall. The light he had seen appeared to be coming from the kitchen and Ilya crept towards it to listen at the door, wondering if he would need to deal with whoever was inside. There was nothing for a moment, and then a loud snore permeated the silence. Pushing open the door a little Ilya could see a man sitting in a chair before the large fireplace, head back, mouth open as he slept. Hopefully, then, Ilya wouldn’t need to worry about him.

Melian owned a great many things; a lot of ornaments and artwork. There were a number of paintings hung along the wall as he climbed the stairs, some of beautiful scenery, others of people. There was even a large painting of Melian himself at the top of the stairs depicting the lord posing for the artist with a sword in his hand. Ilya doubted the man even knew how to use a sword; he probably paid people to do it for him.

A quick search of the top floor revealed Melian’s bedroom to the left of the stairs. The door was ajar and Ilya pushed it open to slip inside, careful to maintain silence. It wasn’t that Melian being awake would stop what he had come to do, but it would make things more difficult and Ilya wanted this to be easy and quick.

The man was sleeping peacefully, laid out on his back amidst a pile of thick covers and exquisitely decorated pillows. So far he seemed to have kept his word and Ilya decided to do a more thorough search before ending the lord’s life. There was no way he could let the man live, not with what he knew, what he had seen, but had he really changed and lived up to his word of not keeping any more slaves then Ilya knew the death would linger on his conscience. The world needed more people that would say no to keeping a slave, who would have respect for other human life no matter the origin. And whether it was from a decent upbringing or out of fear it didn’t matter.

There were more rooms than any one person could have possibly needed, stretched out along the expanse of the house. So many were unused – the place could probably have comfortably held the entire Order of assassins – yet it was occupied by just one man. Ilya didn’t see the justice in it. But if he had been born into a wealthy family, had had everything given to him when he asked for it, perhaps then he would have felt differently.

There was a door at the end of the corridor on the right side of the stairs that was locked. When Ilya pressed his ear up to the wood he could have sworn he heard noises; breathing perhaps. He knelt down to pick the lock, glad for his training when he opened it with ease. Perhaps whoever was inside was too scared to run; perhaps a locked door was enough to stop them.

Ilya could feel the hot fingers of anger gripping him as he stepped inside the room, regarding two figures lying on thin mattresses. Each had a chain that connected to a collar around their necks, the other end fastened to a ring in the wall. They both lay on their sides, curled up in their sleep; too thin and too pale. Ilya could see bruising marring a slender shoulder that peeked out from under a thin blanket. They were both male, seemingly in their late teens or early twenties and neither of them should have been there.  
He avoided waking them as he closed the door, making his way back to Melian’s room. It had been too much to hope the man would change for good but he had taken Melian for a coward that feared for his life too much to disobey. Either he was braver than he looked or he was a fool that didn’t believe Ilya would ever come for him.

The man woke up when Ilya climbed on the bed to straddle him but the assassin already had a dagger pressed to his throat. His eyes widened as realisation dawned that Ilya was no bed companion.

“Who-?” he choked out, eyes darting side to side, searching for means to escape. Ilya leaned down, pressing the tip of the dagger deeper until blood began to well from the tiny wound.

“You didn’t keep your word, Melian,” he said, watching fear and realisation cross the man’s face. Perhaps it had just been foolishness that had caused him to go against Ilya’s instructions; he certainly didn’t seem brave.

“Please,” the man begged and Ilya felt the body beneath him shaking. “I’ll get rid of them; I’ll do whatever you say. Please let me live.”

Ilya shook his head.

“You had one chance. That’s all anyone ever gets.”

Melian’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the dagger pierced the flesh over his heart; he was dead before he could issue a sound. The body slumped back into the covers and pillows and if it wasn’t for the blood that was beginning to stain the sheets he could have simply been sleeping. Ilya didn’t dally, just slipped from the bed to make his way back to the room with the slaves. They weren’t his people but they deserved freedom just like everybody else.

He knelt beside one of the boys, placing a hand over his mouth as he jolted him from sleep so he wouldn’t scream.

“Shh,” he whispered, waiting for a brief nod before crossing to wake the other boy. They both sat up once he had woken them, staring at him meekly as if he was going to hurt them. “Where does he keep the keys?” Ilya indicated to the chains.

“In a chest in his room,” one of the boys answered and he was relived to see that they were trusting of him. He supposed it made sense. Would they prefer to live their current lives as slaves or put their trust in a stranger who seemed intent on freeing them?

He moved quickly to fetch the key, not sparing a glance to Melian’s rapidly cooling body as he did so. Before going back to the slaves’ room he stopped to listen at the stairs for any signs of the cook waking but there were none.

“Who are you?” one of the slaves asked but Ilya was silent, shooting him a look that told him that he should be as well. Neither of them spoke again as he unlocked the collars at their necks.

“Collect anything you need,” he told them once he was done, “and be very quiet.”

He waited outside the door as the slaves collected their meagre belongings and any clothes they could find to keep them warm. It would have been easy to escape on his own but with the two slaves in tow he had to be more careful. Not that he couldn’t deal with the cook if he made an appearance, but Ilya didn’t like to kill unless it was necessary.  
He managed to get them out the way he had entered; through the window in the store room. Both were definitely slender enough to fit through the gap, as if Melian hadn’t been feeding them properly. 

“Go,” he told them once they were clear of the manor. “Go wherever you wish, you’re free now.”

It seemed to take a moment to dawn on them.

“Best travel far. When someone finds Melian dead they’ll be looking for you.”

As Ilya turned to leave he felt a hand clutch his arm and found himself looking into the eyes of one of the slaves.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I don’t know why you did this but thank you.”

Ilya nodded.

“Go.”

He didn’t wait to see them leave, just heard them scurrying away as he made his way back to where he’d left Inna. Where they would go, he didn’t know, only that they were better off free than they were being Melian’s slaves. Since he was the type that liked to break a slave and the both of them looked already broken and worn down, then it was possible they had reached the end of their usefulness. Probably why Melian had been after a new slave. No one would have cared if both the boys had ended up dead; they were just slaves.

Ilya sighed. Too few people seemed to know the value of a human life. Some would hold that life willingly in their hand and then crush it as they wished to satisfy their own desires. Few knew more of its import than the assassins; life was their existence, their currency, and they would go out of their way to keep the innocent safe. Death came only to those that deserved it, swift and terrible, and Ilya knew he could leave Melian’s home with the knowledge that he had done the right thing. 

 

Rade was proving to be a hard man to track down.

Ilya had found a page in Farak’s ledger that listed the home towns of the men under his employ, and it had led him to a small town near the sea named Elenn. The place looked peaceful enough, settled within four high walls that had probably once been used to keep invaders at bay, not that Ilya could see anything worth invading about Elenn. Once inside the walls it was little more than a collection of roughly cobbled roads and small houses packed tightly together. Though his initial impression of peace was shattered at the few people he passed in dark alleys and on corners, just loitering and watching. They were thieves or hired thugs, if he had to take a guess. Perhaps smugglers, given Elenn’s proximity to the sea. They gifted him with long, hard looks as he moved through the streets, though none of them approached.

There was a small market set up in the centre of town, little more than a few stalls packed together with merchants selling their wares. Fruit, freshly caught fish, small trinkets. Ilya wondered what life as a merchant would be like. Dull, no doubt; quiet.

He moved closer to the fruit stall and deliberated picking something out to buy from the thin looking woman that ran it. The small pouch of money secreted on his person was used so rarely, and the woman looked like she could do with the coin. 

Ilya picked up a round and red apple and held out a coin to the woman, who accepted it with a nod of her head. He didn’t imagine that the people in Elenn were particularly enthusiastic about fruit; they didn’t seem the type.

“Could you direct me to a tavern?” he asked. The woman raised her arm to point down one of the side streets, but didn’t speak. Ilya gave her a nod and then moved off. Elenn was a strange place.

He tossed the apple to a small girl sitting in the shadow of a doorway, not stopping to see if she ate it, or even wanted it, as he went in search of the tavern. If he was to find out about Rade, he was sure it would be there. He had seemed like the type. 

Ilya found the tavern on the corner of two larger streets, looking wholly cold and uninviting. He had to shake his head at the name The Jolly Beggar; the place didn’t look as if it saw much joviality. As he opened the door he was met with the stench of alcohol and the musty gloom of a place that wasn’t aired out enough; not to mention the stares of the local drunken populace. There were mostly men sitting around at the tables, but he noticed a couple of women milling around, though neither of them stopped to drink. Most likely staff. 

The silence that his entry had caused grew uncomfortable as Ilya approached the bar, wary of trouble. They looked like the type to strike before asking questions and he would prefer to avoid conflict. None of them had to know he was hunting Rade down so that he could kill him.

Ilya was thankful when the conversation resumed around him, allowing himself to relax as he reached the bar to wait for the bartender’s attention. A moment later a woman approached him, her brown hair curled up into a messy bun, her ample frame squeezed into a corset so tight that her bosom threatened to spill out. Perhaps she was used to people staring at her cleavage as a frown pulled at the corners of her mouth when Ilya failed to do so.

“What can I get you, love?” she asked, brightening up and reaching down to pull up a tankard for whatever he wanted, perhaps endeavoured to try again for his attention.

“I’m looking for someone. A man named Rade.”

Ilya noticed the way she leaned forward slightly, trying to draw attention to her cleavage, seemingly desperate for the attention that men would give her. Ilya had to admit that the soft curves of the woman were attractive, but he was hardly the type to give her what she wanted. Perhaps she was looking for a man more like Mercer, someone who would pinch her backside and give her a wink, perhaps a little flirting. He wasn’t sure where Mercer’s tastes lay but had an inkling that it would be towards anyone that would have him.  
“Ah.” A smile drifted to the woman’s face. “I know Rade, nice lad, bit simple. Not seen him in a long time, love. Why do you want him?”

“Business.”

She nodded her head towards a table of men in one dark corner.

“Ask that lot over there. Now-,” she leaned further down and gave Ilya a saucy wink, “-is there anything else I can get you?”

He almost felt bad for disappointing her.

“No, thank you.”

Ilya heard the woman huff as he turned from the bar to approach the table she had indicated. There were three men sat around it; one big and muscular, one so thin that he looked ill, and the third was large with tattoos covering his body and over his bald head. The large man stood up as he approached in an attempt to intimidate him but Ilya knew how to find his weaknesses should he attack.

“I’m told you may help me find Rade,” he said to the other two men, unwilling to waste time. The thin man let out a laugh, while the other took a gulp of his ale before looking up at Ilya.

“Any why would we do something like that, Cothi?” 

Ilya sighed.

“Do you know where he is or not?”

“Why would we tell you?” the large man asked, dropping a hand onto Ilya’s shoulder. He reacted before any of them could move, sliding behind the man and forcing him down with a kick to the back of his knee, twisting his arm up behind his back. He made sure their eyes were on the dagger that he held to the man’s throat, less they get any ideas about attacking him.

“If you want to leave here with your lives intact, I suggest you don’t try and mess me around.”

There was fear in the thin man’s eyes, and he could feel the large one shaking before him, but the third looked calm, taking another gulp of his drink before setting it down on the table.

“Why are you looking for Rade?” he asked, eyes flicking from the knife up to where Ilya’s eyes were shadowed by his hood. 

“Unfinished business.”

The man gave him a predatory smile, showing a little too much teeth. Ilya wondered if he used it often to scare away anyone that might disrupt their quiet drinking time.  
“Well if you see him,” the man began, “tell him Collins is looking for him.”

Ilya released the large man with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, tucking his knife back in his belt as he turned away. Apparently Rade hadn’t been back to Elenn since he’d fled the compound; Ilya would have to find some other way to track him down. Perhaps he should have spoken up when Rade had asked him where to go; he knew that the man would have obeyed whatever he’d said and then finding him wouldn’t be a problem. He could be anywhere, secreting himself away in any of Nadoa’s hundreds of cities, towns and villages.

He would have to get Mercer on the case; Ilya didn’t have the time to search so thoroughly for one man. But he dreaded to think what the mercenary would ask for in return; he still hurt from their last encounter, though the pain had almost faded. He didn’t like looking at the sickly yellow bruises on his hips every time he bathed, and had to wonder if Mercer had put them there on purpose, to remind him.

“Damn Mercer,” he muttered as he climbed onto his horse, ready to be as far away from Elenn as possible.


	11. Chapter X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya and his master make a deal

It was midday when Ilya arrived back at the assassin compound and the courtyard was busy with the noises of blades clashing, grunts of exertion, people talking. The day was hot and Ilya felt uncomfortable in his dark clothes, wanting nothing more than to shed some of them and pull his hood down to feel the gentle breeze across his face and the back of his neck. But the anonymity was important, they were always told, even amongst their brothers and sisters. Ilya didn’t even know what most of them properly looked like, as he never saw them without their hoods. They would know him, of course; the pitch black hair and dark eyes were always a give away.

Since he had no place to be immediately, Ilya stopped to watch Beth training her apprentices. She was stood on the edge of the sandy ring while two apprentices were practicing disarming each other. A number of others stood around the outside of the ring watching, waiting their turn.

“How is the training going?” Ilya asked as he stepped up beside Beth, watching as one of the apprentices went for his partner’s knife and failed miserably. Beth gave an exasperated sigh.

“Some of them have mastered it, but some are struggling. Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate the correct way to do it, Shade Ilya?”

He’d seen it coming. Beth seemed to like pulling him into helping her train her apprentices whenever she could, demonstrating a move or a manoeuvre. Ilya was glad he had never been chosen to train apprentices; he would have been terrible at it. He didn’t have Beth’s patience when it came to people not understanding the simplest of moves.  
Ilya gave her a nod, moving past her into the circle of sand. Beth gestured for the apprentice with the dagger to stay, while the other stepped out to join the others.

It seemed like it had been such a long time ago when Ilya had stood where they were, though it had only been a few years. Back then the other apprentices had despised him for the way he picked everything up so easily and outshone them all. But he hadn’t been there to make friends.

He nodded to the apprentice, giving him the signal to start, watching as the man shifted as if nervous. They all knew that to get ahead in the Order, you had to impress your superiors and show off your skill. A good word put in by a Shade could mean everything. Ilya almost felt sorry for the apprentice as he lunged with the knife only to find it ripped from his grasp and his arm yanked up behind his back. It all came to Ilya so easy now, like his body remembered how to do it without his mind ever needing to recall anything.   
He demonstrated the disarm a few more times, showing the apprentices a variety of ways to achieve the goal, hoping that they would take heed of the lesson. The ability to disarm your opponent was a crucial one; one that Ilya had used on many, many occasions throughout his time as an assassin.

“Thank you, Shade Ilya,” Beth said with a smile as he stepped out of the ring. “If any of my apprentices can perform a disarm half as good as yours I will be happy.”  
Ilya inclined his head in response, casting his eye across the gathering of apprentices before he looked back at her.

“I must be going.”

He knew they all thought him to be a sour, humourless person. He’d heard some of the Blades talking about him once, including Beth. He hadn’t meant to be listening but they had intruded on his quiet contemplation and had then failed to notice his presence. 

“He’s so…I don’t know,” one of the Blades had said, a man whose voice he didn’t recognise, “He’s so cold and he never smiles. And he’s quiet. Thinks he’s better than us.”

“He’s not like that,” Beth had replied. “I think he’s had a hard life.”

“And our lives are easy?”

“No, you know.” Beth had lowered her voice. “Sander said he saw him bathing once. He’s got whip scars all over his back.”

“Where do you think they’re from?” another voice had asked, a female.

“I don’t know. It’s his business. All I’m saying is just…give him a chance. He’s nice and he always helps with my apprentices when I ask.”

The other woman had laughed.

“Do you have feelings for him, Beth? Do you want to have half Silaen babies with him?”

Ilya had decided to give them their privacy at this point, slipping away from the conversation without them noticing. Of course he didn’t think that Beth had feelings for him but it had been nice to believe that at least one person was willing to give him a chance. It was why he didn’t mind helping her when she asked for it, though he would have done it anyway. Part of being an assassin was to push aside feelings towards anybody; feelings tended to interfere with the job at hand. They all came to accept it sooner or later.

 

Ilya had planned to get some food, perhaps a few hours rest, but he heard his name being called as he made his way towards his room.

“Shade Ilya.” He stopped to let the apprentice catch up with him. “Master Davix wishes to see you.”

“Yes, thank you.”

He had been expecting it. Since he’d returned from the slave compound he knew he had barely been doing any of his true work. He had wondered how long Davix would let him get wrapped up in his goal of freeing the Silaen slaves before dragging him back to reality.

Davix was in his office as usual, a number of books spread out before him on the desk.

“Ilya,” he said when the assassin entered. “Sit.”

Davix was known, on occasion, to have a good sense of humour, but there was no hint of it in his eyes when Ilya sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk.   
“Let me get straight to the point.” The master assassin shifted to sit up in his chair, closing some of the books to move them aside. “You are being careless, Ilya. Since you returned from Rynor you have been going off on your own without informing me and neglecting your duties to this Order.”

Ilya nodded. No matter his feelings, he knew that Master Davix was right.

“I can only hope you have been covering your tracks properly,” Davix continued. “We don’t know how far any of this goes, what you could be bringing down upon us should anything go wrong. I should never have put you on Rynor’s trail in the first place. I knew this would be too close to you. You were a slave once, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

There was so much to say, but little that was worth saying. Ilya knew he had been neglecting his duties, that his work for the assassins should be his top priority. But he had found himself lying awake at night thinking about the slaves that had yet to be rescued; about Josef’s wife and daughter.

“I cannot give this up, Master,” he said at last. “I cannot leave my countrymen to suffer as I suffered at the hands of cruel masters. Once this is done I will let it go and perform my duties as normal. I have done good work for you, Master. Please afford me this one request.”

Davix gave a deep sigh, studying Ilya’s face before he spoke again.

“Yes, you have done excellent work for me, Ilya. You have exceeded all of my expectations and no doubt impressed all of those opposed to your promotion to Shade at such an early stage. Your ability to perform any task I set for you quickly and quietly is one of the reasons I chose you above the others.” He broke off, staring again at Ilya’s face as if thinking over something important in his mind. “Very well,” he said finally. “You may have two weeks. Two weeks to get everything done and then after that I want you to leave it. If you haven’t finished by that point then you may delegate the task outside the Order, but that will be it for you. Once the two weeks are over we will speak no more of this subject and you will return to your duties. Are we agreed?”

Two weeks wasn’t nearly enough. There were still so many left to rescue and no one he could fully trust or rely on to do it. He opened his mouth to beg for more time but then closed it. Two weeks spend on his own project meant that Davix would be without his Shade to do his work for him. His Master relied heavily on him and his duties were vital. In giving him the weeks to do as he pleased, Davix was offering him a great gift, one that he intended not to squander.

“Thank you, Master.” Ilya bowed his head. “You show great faith and trust in me. I will not disappoint you.”

“See that you do not.”

Sensing that the conversation was over, Ilya rose to his feet to leave.

“Oh, Ilya?” He looked back at his Master. “I hope you free them all. Unlike others here I harbour no resentment towards your people. No one should have to be enslaved against their will.”

Ilya inclined his head once more.

“Thank you, Master.”

His mind raced as he stepped out of Davix’s office, thinking about all the things he had to do in such a short amount of time. Mercer would have to be the first stop along his journey; the man’s help would be vital if he were to succeed. Perhaps he or Mercer could train some of the other Silaens in combat, allowing them to take the easier jobs on their own.

He had planned to rest since he hadn’t had a proper sleep in a few days, but there was no time. Sleep would be a luxury now as every hour he wasted was an hour closer to his deadline. He took some food from the dining hall and then made his way down to the stables where Inna stood with her head over the door of the stall as if she had been waiting for him.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us,” Ilya told her as he stroked a hand down her neck. “Please forgive me if I work you too hard.”

She whinnied back at him and he gave her another stroke before getting to work to saddle her up. Her calm personality and high stamina would come in great use in the next two weeks; Ilya was glad to have her to rely on. He sighed as he climbed onto her back and set her away from the compound. His only true ally in his quest was a horse; it was not a good situation to be in.


	12. Chapter XI

One of the mercenaries must have seen him coming as the gates were already open by the time he reached the compound. Night had fallen as he’d been riding and from the outside the compound had looked dark, abandoned. It was only when he got inside that he saw the muted lights placed strategically around the buildings. A defence perhaps, to stop unwanted attention.

“Boss is in the dining hall,” the mercenary that took Inna told him, jerking his thumb towards a door to the left of the main building. Ilya nodded in thanks and headed where he’d been directed.

To say the hall was busy would have been an understatement. The room consisted mainly of one long table and it seemed the entirety of Mercer’s men now sat around it eating. It was unusual, but then, he reminded himself, most of the assassins sat down to eat at the same time too. It was only a few that didn’t; the ones who were often too busy working to have scheduled meals.

“Assassin!” Mercer crossed over to where Ilya stood at the door, clapping him on the back a little harder than he would have preferred. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
The man looked as if he’d been drinking; a lazy smile on his face, his cheeks reddened. 

“I’m here on business.”

Mercer’s smile widened as he guided Ilya over towards a space on one of the long benches around the table.

“Sit and eat with us first.”

Ilya dug in his heels, moving Mercer’s arm from his shoulder.

“No thank you.”

The man shrugged.

“I am going to eat anyway, Ilya. You won’t get much business out of me for the time being.”

After Mercer sat down at the table, Ilya stood awkwardly for a few moments, wondering what to do. He could go and wait outside until the man was ready, but that could take an age. Eventually, he slipped onto the bench beside Mercer, hoping to coax him towards eating quickly so they could have a discussion.

“You assassins are so hard on yourselves,” Mercer said, snatching the plate in front of Ilya and filling it up with food from the bowls and platters on the table before placing it back before him. “When do you ever have any fun?”

Ilya sighed. “I don’t have time.”

“Rather you than me, assassin,” a man across the table said as Ilya began to pick at the food in front of him. He hadn’t had much to eat during the day so far and the food did smell tempting. “All that discipline, all the rules. You never smoke, you don’t drink. Do you ever even fuck?”

Ilya had to stop himself jerking his head up sharply, wanting nothing more than an end to the conversation. 

“They’re not all without fun,” another man spoke up. “Remember when the assassins used to come round…ten or so years ago? There was that one…”

“Oh, yes.” A grin split across the face of the first man. “That one, the Shade that could hold his ale. If I recall, he was also getting a bit of fun between the sheets, wasn’t he, Mercer?” Apparently Ilya wasn’t the only assassin Mercer had coaxed into bed. He seemed to be good at it. “What was his name?”

“Began with a D,” the other one answered. “Dave…David…oh, Davix.”

Ilya choked on his food. He winced when Mercer hit him on the back to stop his coughing and frowned up at the man from beneath his hood.

“Something I said?” the mercenary across the table asked.

A wry smile twisted Mercer’s lips.

“Davix is Ilya’s Master.”

Ilya could only drop his head forward and stare down at his food as the mercenaries erupted into laughter. The idea that Master Davix had once been friends with the mercenaries and also Mercer’s bed partner was hard to get his head around. But then, the two weren’t so far apart in age and the assassins and the mercenaries had been closer back then. He wanted to find out what had changed, but neither Davix nor Mercer seemed inclined to tell him.

“How is Davix anyway?” Mercer asked him once the laughter had died down and most of the others had returned to their conversations. “It’s…been a while.”

“He has a lot on his mind. He is not a Shade as he was back then; the responsibilities of a Master assassin are a heavy burden.”

“But he delegates a lot of tasks to you, surely?” The slight tilt of Mercer’s head indicated that he was genuinely interested in the answer, perhaps wishing to learn more about how the assassins worked. Ilya wondered if things were different than they had been when Davix was a Shade.

“My Master asks many things of me.”

“Does he ever ask you to bend over so he can fuck your pretty arse?” one of the other mercenaries asked and Ilya narrowed his eyes as the wave of anger passed through him. He contemplated seeing if he could get away with hurting the man, but Mercer’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from getting to his feet.

“I’d advise you against riling up assassins, Breck,” the man said, his fingers digging into Ilya’s flesh. “They are experts at being where you least expect them, after all.”  
“He’ll kill you while you’re sleeping,” one of the others said and the table broke out into more laughter.

Ilya had had enough. He pulled Mercer’s hand from his shoulder and got up from the bench to go outside, wishing to be away from the mercenaries and their undisciplined ways. He wasn’t used to people like them anymore; so free with their words and their actions despite the consequences.

Mercer joined him a few moments later when he was leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed, thinking about what had happened.

“You’ll get used to them,” the man said, fiddling with the pipe in his hand in order to light it. “I know our ways are different to yours.”

Different. It was certainly an understatement.

“I wonder how you get much work done when your men are so undisciplined.”

Mercer gave a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Discipline is for assassins, Ilya. Our methods may differ but we both get the job done.”

“Yes.” Ilya took the opportunity to turn the conversation in the right direction, pushing off from the wall to begin the walk towards Mercer’s rooms. “We need to talk. I’ve a favour to ask of you.”

“I did think as much.”

Ilya waited until they were in Mercer’s room before continuing the conversation, watching as the man settled himself in his chair, lifting his feet up onto the table.

“I need a man found. It is very important.”

Mercer nodded. “And who is this man?”

“His name is Rade. He worked for Rynor.”

“Loose end?”

Ilya sighed. “Yes. One I should have dispatched when I had the chance but I failed to do so.”

A smirk crept onto Mercer’s face as he puffed on his pipe.

“And now you want me to do your work for you? It’s unlike you assassins to mess things up.”

Mercer seemed intent on riling Ilya up, despite his warnings to the mercenary named Breck. Perhaps he thought he was immune to the anger of an assassin; perhaps he was, given the trouble that would come down on them should Ilya kill him.

“If you hear anything,” Ilya forced himself to say, trying to keep his tone calm, “please inform me. I need to find him.”

“So you can kill him?”

Ilya nodded.

“Very well.” Mercer leaned back in his chair, sucking on his pipe for a while before he spoke again. “I want you to come with me to Dras. I’ve arranged to meet this friend of yours, Briden.”

Ilya found himself grateful that Mercer was making arrangements of his own, that he was holding up his end of their bargain. He had almost expected the man to sit back until Ilya forced him to act, making plans for him.

“Yes, of course,” he answered. “When do we leave?”

“In the morning. I assume you need a place to sleep.”

“Yes.”

Mercer raised an eyebrow as if in question, gesturing with his hand towards the area behind the curtain.

“You’re more than welcome to sleep here with me, little assassin. My bed has been so empty since the last time you were here, and my lust so unsated.”

Ilya crossed his arms, having to force down his rising anger once more, unwilling to escalate the situation. 

“You have done nothing to deserve it yet,” he forced out. “I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

“On a blanket on the floor, perhaps?”

Ilya ended up in the barracks where the mercenaries slept, curled up on a cot listening to the sounds of the men snoring. It was preferable to spending the night in Mercer’s bed, at least.

Sleep took a while to come but he knew he would be grateful for it. It would be sparse in days to come and he would get it where he could find it.

 

The mercenaries were not early risers. 

Ilya had risen with the sun, as usual, and found all of the other men to still be asleep, sprawled out on their cots. Having no idea where he could bathe, Ilya opted instead to head back to the dining hall to get some food before the day began. It was pleasantly peaceful without the hordes of mercenaries and he was happy to sit down to eat whatever food he could find in silence.

The only mercenaries he could find at the early hour were the ones on guard up on the walls and they watched him suspiciously as he moved about the compound, familiarising himself with its layout. Should things turn sour and if Ilya found himself needing to flee then knowledge of the best exits would certainly be useful.

He found a fair few blind spots amongst the buildings where he would be hidden from archers and men on the ground alike, as well as some places where the wall looked particularly climbable. Ilya wouldn’t let Mercer get the better of him again, especially now that he had had time to prepare an escape route should the worst happen.

Ilya was sitting on the roof of the main building watching the bird flying up above when the mercenaries finally started emerging. It was peaceful for a time, his hood shadowing his eyes from the sun while he watched the sky and the clouds that drifted lazily across it. It wasn’t often when he found the time to be at such peace and he was grateful for the opportunity at the beginning of his long journey to free his people. He would be so busy in the next two weeks that he wouldn’t have time to watch the sky again.

“How did you get up there, little assassin?”

Ilya leaned forward slightly to look over the edge of the roof, noting Mercer standing there with his hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. 

“How do you expect?” he replied, shifting forward so his legs dangled over the edge of the roof, watching the mercenary’s face. “I climbed of course.”

The man looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept well, but the lazy smile that crossed his face would be enough to fool the casual observer. Ilya had become good at reading people, looking for the little signs that would betray their mood.

“You’ll have to teach me how to do that.” Mercer reached up to slip his fingers around Ilya’s ankle and the assassin jerked his foot away with a frown.

“I doubt I could teach you anything about climbing.”

Mercer laughed.

“I’m going to go eat. I take it you’ve already had something?” Ilya nodded. “Well then, we’ll leave in an hour.”

They would most likely reach Dras after nightfall, and Ilya found he wasn’t looking forward to spending a day travelling with the mercenaries and their loose tongues. With any hope they would understand that he was happy to ride on his own in silence and leave him to it, but then, he suspected, Mercer wasn’t really the understanding type.

Ilya sighed and climbed down from the roof to find the stables, planning to get Inna ready for the journey. She seemed happy enough amongst the other horses, well fed and watered, looked after as well as any of the mercenaries’ own mounts. He was still surprised that they were so accepting of his presence after what had happened between their two factions before; perhaps it would be the beginning of a renewed friendship between them. Because while the mercenaries were crass and undisciplined, they had ways of getting information quickly and efficiently and would no doubt be handy as allies. Maybe the journey would be the perfect opportunity to ask Mercer about what had happened, provided he was willing to talk.


	13. Chapter XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya and Mercer make the trip to Dras

The journey was not going well. 

Any hopes Ilya had had of riding quietly on his own were dashed as soon as the group left the mercenary compound. Mercer had insisted on them all riding close together and the mercenaries talked endlessly, laughing and joking about anything and everything from work to women. They kept trying to get him to join in the conversation but Ilya did his best to ignore them and focus on the journey.

Mercer rode at the head of the group, joining in as much as the rest of them. It was so noisy; Ilya was tempted to travel on ahead and wait for them to catch him up.

“You don’t look very happy,” Mercer said, drawing his horse level with Ilya’s. The assassin gave him a frown.

“You talk incessantly.” He could feel a headache forming and rubbed his temple in an attempt to alleviate it. “An enemy could hear you from a mile away.”

Mercer gave him one of his cocky smiles. “We aren’t expecting anyone to attack us, Ilya.”

That was just it, though. Ilya lived his life attacking when people weren’t expecting it. Why give them a warning when you could sneak up and slit their throats? He remained wary once Mercer moved off to talk to his mercenaries, eyes scanning their surroundings as they travelled. Some parts of the journey were across open land where he could relax a little, knowing that they would spot anyone from miles away. Other parts were through land dense with greenery, and Ilya kept his eyes on the trees, looking for signs of movement. It paid to be wary. People didn’t sneak up on assassins.

They were making their way through a patch of woodland, the mercenaries quiet for a change, when Ilya raised his head, his assassin’s senses tingling. He thought he heard a noise, a distant rustling of boots across the leaf strewn forest floor. He held up a hand to halt the group before slipping from Inna’s back. 

To the left of their party was a row of dense undergrowth and Ilya wormed his way through it to find himself at the top of a steep decline. The forest at the bottom of the slope was clearer, the greenery trodden down as if it were a path well used by travellers. He could hear the rustling again and after a few moments the first man appeared. He was tall and broad, the light that filtered through the forest’s canopy glinting off his bald head as he moved along the path. It was his tunic that caught Ilya’s eye; dark blue with a wolf crest emblazoned across the front.

Ilya went back to Mercer as quietly as he could.

“What is it?” the man asked, thankfully wary enough to keep his voice down.

“Does a blue tunic with a wolf crest mean anything to you?” Ilya watched as Mercer’s face suddenly darkened, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“They call themselves The Pack,” he replied, signalling for his men to dismount behind him. “They move from place to place attacking small villages, stealing what they can. We’ve had dealings with them in the past. Nasty bunch.”

Ilya gestured for the man to follow him and the two moved through the undergrowth to watch the men pass below. Others had caught up with the first man; Ilya counted nine in total.

“Not the whole lot,” Mercer whispered beside him. “Perhaps a scouting party. They may be preparing to raid another village.”

“Why no horses?”

Mercer shrugged. “Too noisy maybe. These scouting parties operate by quietly scoping out their potential target. There’s a village just north of the forest, simple farming community. Been there once or twice; they’re very welcoming.”

“We must stop them.”

The man nodded. For once the two of them were in complete agreement.

Mercer had brought six mercenaries with him which brought their total to eight. They had a good chance of winning against the group of men trudging along below them.  
“Go back and collect your men,” Ilya said, not taking his eyes off the enemy. “Circle around the front and cut them off. Don’t start the fight, just distract them.”

Mercer raised an eyebrow, a smile twisting one side of his mouth. “And you?”

Ilya waved a hand across to the right. “I’ll head around the back and attack from behind. Surprise will be our greatest asset here.”

He almost expected Mercer to argue, to want to take the lead and the glory for himself, but the man simply nodded.

“I’ll follow your lead, assassin,” he said. “But leave some of them for us.”

Once Mercer disappeared back through the bushes, Ilya headed right, circling around behind the group of men. They were taking care not to make too much noise as they travelled, but there was a distinct lack of caution amongst them. None of them ever stopped to look behind them, scan the line of trees for potential danger. Perhaps they were simply unused to anyone being foolish enough to attack them.

Ilya wished he had brought his bow along. While archery was not his forte, he had some skill in it, able to hit targets with accuracy. As it was, he would have to settle for his throwing knives and his blades. Still, with Mercer providing a distraction he would be able to do enough damage. 

He followed the men for a few minutes, keeping far enough back that they didn’t spot him, taking care to tread quietly amongst the leaves. Soon enough they stopped, and Ilya crept forward to see the mercenaries blocking their path.

“Mercer,” the first man said. “How nice to see you here. Out for a stroll?”

As they talked, Ilya moved into position, stopping close enough that he could almost reach out and touch one of the Pack members.

“Off to raid another village?” he heard Mercer say as he drew his sword from its sheath. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

“And you’re going to stop us?” Laughter rang out amongst the Pack. “Didn’t go so well for you last time, did it?”

A smile crossed Mercer’s face. “I have help.”

Ilya took it as his cue. He darted forward to drive his dagger into the closest man’s neck, pulling it free before anyone could react to fling a throwing knife at the Pack member to his right. Now it was seven against eight, the odds were getting better. As Ilya rolled to avoid a sword and then slashed the dagger at a man’s belly, the mercenaries waded into the fray, drawing the attention of the remaining men. It seemed too easy; these were men more used to scaring unarmed villagers than fighting for their lives. They went down so easily beneath Ilya’s blade, dropping to the forest floor amidst puddles of their friends’ blood. There was a point when Mercer’s back was turned and a Pack member reared up behind him, sword poised to deal a blow that never came. He died with Ilya’s dagger embedded in his back, angled to drive through flesh and rupture organs, stopping him in his tracks.

At the end all nine of The Pack lay on the forest floor, and only once mercenary had been injured. Breck sported a long gash on his torso, but it wasn’t deep.

“How many of these kills were yours, Ilya?” Mercer asked him, clapping him on the back. 

“Enough,” he said. It had been five. Ilya remembered everyone that fell to his blade.

“Glad you were here, assassin.” Breck grinned at him, holding a wad of fabric to his torso that had previously been tied around his waist. “Could do with a few more like you with us. What do you say, Mercer? Feel like a little recruiting?”

They turned to head back to the horses, not bothering to search the dead men. Anyone who came across them out here would soon learn who they were, what they had been planning.

“They attacked a village that a group of us were staying at,” Mercer told Ilya as they climbed back onto their horses. “There were a lot of them, way more than us. I lost a lot of good men that day.”

“What did you do?” The look the man gave him was strange, a slight frown with a hint of sadness.

“We ran.”

Things were quieter on the rest of the journey, though the group perked up as Dras came into sight along the horizon. The sun had set a few hours ago; the day had been a long one.

“We’ll see Briden in the morning,” Mercer said as they reached the gates. “A stay at the inn tonight will lift our spirits.”

As much as Ilya wanted to get things over and done with, he couldn’t deny the men a good night’s rest. 

They stabled their horses and Breck went off to find someone who could see to his wound properly while the others headed towards the nearest inn. A wave of noise hit Ilya as Mercer pushed open the door, followed by the heat of a room filled with sweaty men, and the stench of alcohol.

“We’ve only got three rooms available,” the woman at the bar told them. “Each can sleep three if they squeeze up.”

“That sounds perfect.” Mercer gave her a wink and a grin. She smiled shyly, a blush creeping across her cheeks.

“Will you be wanting dinner?”

Ilya hung back as Mercer paid for the rooms, a frown on his face. He could tell where the evening was going. The six mercenaries would split between two rooms which left the last room to Mercer…and himself. He would rather sleep on the floor in the corridor.

They found a couple of tables in the corner that were free and sat down amidst the chaos of the inn. It seemed that the people of Dras had little to do with their evenings than drink. They talked loudly, swearing and shouting at each other across the room, erupting into laughter more often than Ilya thought was necessary. There were women milling amongst them, some dressed in revealing clothing, with their cleavage on display. They sat on laps, allowed men to pinch their backsides and giggled at all the jokes. Some let the men drag them away outside or upstairs. Apparently prostitution was a lucrative line of work in Dras. 

The food was better than he could have hoped for and he was a great deal hungrier than he thought he was. The mercenaries seemed to be, too, as dinner was eaten with relative silence amongst the table. Afterwards was a different matter; the ale came to the table in plentiful supplies and the mercenaries didn’t hold back. They laughed when he refused to drink, but he believed they understood why not, even if they didn’t agree with it.

The mercenaries began to filter away; some drifted to the bar to talk to people they thought they recognised, a couple took an interest in two women standing in the corner. It left Ilya and Mercer relatively alone. 

“Do you ever have fun?” Mercer asked before taking a long gulp of his ale. He set the mug down and gave a loud belch. Ilya sighed.

“I don’t-,”

“-have time, yes,” the man interrupted. “You said before. But you can’t be working all the time, Ilya. How do you spend your free time?”

What little there was to be had. An assassin’s life was his work; everything else was secondary.

“I like to read,” he said after a few moments. “Though I don’t have the time since I became a Shade.”

“What do you read?”

Ilya shrugged. “There are many history books in the library at the compound, some strategy, some battle tactics. I used to read fiction when I could find it.”

Mercer studied him for a while and Ilya frowned, feeling uncomfortable under the man’s gaze. His eyes had an intensity to them, a deep green that Ilya was sure drew more than a few people in.

“Remind me to show you how we have fun,” he said eventually. Ilya opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when a woman sashayed past the table, her full hips swinging as she walked. Mercer pulled the woman into his lap and she let out a high giggle, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“What’s a lovely thing like you doing here?” the man asked, his eyes drawn to the woman’s bosom bare inches from his face. “What’s your name?”

She lowered her head slightly, batting her lashes at him. “Anita. But you can call me Annie.”

Ilya watched as the man’s hand slipped down the woman’s back beneath the line of the table. He couldn’t see where it went but could make a guess when the woman jerked suddenly and slapped at his hand with a giggle.

“That’ll cost you,” she said and Mercer responded with a laugh.

“What about my friend here?” He gestured towards Ilya and for the first time Anita seemed to notice he was there. 

“Oh I like a man with a little mystery.” She turned to lean over the table, the movement exposing a lot of cleavage to Ilya’s eyes. He diverted his gaze, eyes shifting to Mercer who had a lazy grin on his face. “You two going to show me a bit of fun?”

“How about it, Ilya?” Mercer asked, winking at him across the table. Ilya got to his feet, eyes narrowed at the man who seemed to have made it his mission to rile the assassin up. 

“I’m going out for some air.”

Mercer’s laughter followed him across the room.


	14. Chapter XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercer makes some demands of Ilya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anyone was waiting for an update. I'm not sure anyone's reading this and I keep wondering if it's worth updating. Still, I update in the hope that someone will read and enjoy it and, as always, feedback would be appreciated.

The air outside was crisp and fresh compared to the stifling heat of the inn. Noise drifted out from inside but it was peaceful in comparison, the hour late enough to keep most people from the streets.

The assassins and the mercenaries were from two different worlds. Mercer and his men seemed so comfortable amongst the heat and the noise and the crowds, but Ilya found it hard to relax. There was a reason people thought him to be uptight and unfriendly, but he just felt uncomfortable around so many people. So many potential attackers, so many people to watch.

He contemplated finding somewhere else to sleep; a stable or a shadowed alley, perhaps. But the night had a distinct chill to it and Ilya found the warmth of the inn calling him back inside.

Mercer wasn’t at the table and the only mercenaries to be found were passed out on the floor. 

“Room five,” the woman at the bar told him when he asked, giving him her shy smile. He nodded in thanks and then headed up the stairs, looking forward to a night’s sleep on a comfortable bed. He could only hope there were two smaller beds instead of one, or he would end up sleeping on the floor. 

He heard a giggle when he stopped outside the room and a frown darkened his face as he pushed open the door. Mercer was sitting on the bed with Anita in his lap, the woman’s breasts bared, his lips wrapped around a nipple. 

“Ilya.” Mercer gave him a grin as he pulled back from the woman, drawing his hand from beneath her skirts. “Come and join us. Which end do you want?”

Ilya remained silent, his gaze fixed with Mercer’s, his hand reflexively curling around the hilt of his dagger. A glance at the woman saw her gaze drift down to it and fear flitted across her face.

“I was only trying to have a bit of fun,” she said, climbing off of Mercer in a hurry. He didn’t look as she scurried past him into the corridor, hands raised to cover her breasts.  
Mercer’s grin had faded into a look of annoyance as Ilya moved to shut the door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked, rising from the bed to step closer to the assassin, his jaw set in a firm line, his shoulders squared. Ilya had no doubt he could defeat Mercer in his intoxicated state, but he would prefer it didn’t come to that. “Why spoil my fun? You didn’t have to join in.”

“I want to sleep,” Ilya replied, drawing himself up straight. He didn’t have Mercer’s size but he wouldn’t back down to his challenge.

“And I want to fuck.” Mercer took a step forward, close enough now that their chests almost touched. “I bring my men all the way here to help you and you can’t afford me this one thing.”

Ilya sighed. 

“You’ll take her place, then,” the mercenary said, reaching out to grasp Ilya’s arm. “And you’ll please me in the way I want.”

“Will I?” Ilya let his annoyance creep into his voice, a sign that his patience was running thin. Perhaps relations with the mercenaries had broken down because they were so impossible to deal with.

“Yes you will.” Mercer leaned closer so his face was only inches from Ilya’s. “You’ll do what I want because I’m risking my life for you, and the lives of my men. So if I want you to bend over and offer your pretty arse to me, you’ll do it.”

Ilya was so tempted to lash out and show the man that he wouldn’t be talked to in such a way, as if he were a servant that needed instruction. He had to make himself tear his hand from the hilt of his weapon, force his fingers to uncurl from the fist they had made. The tension was thick in the air, the silence heavy as each waited to see what the other would do, which one of them would back down. Ilya stared up into the man’s eyes, wanting to push back but knowing what path it would lead him down. Mercer would go and take his men back to the compound, leave him to deal with everything on his own. And he couldn’t. As much as he disliked the man, he needed him.

“Fine,” he forced out eventually through gritted teeth. “I’ll do what you want for tonight.”

Mercer released him and stalked back to the bed, sitting down with his legs far apart. His erection strained at the front of his trousers, perhaps spurred on by the anger and the tension. 

“Come here,” he said, his tone low and serious, his look dark. Ilya forced himself to do as he was told, taking the steps forward until he stood before the mercenary. “Take off your clothes.”

Ilya could feel the man’s eyes on him as he began to strip off his clothing, letting it fall beside him in a pile. He tried to retain his anger and his defiance but it was difficult when he stood naked before the man, vulnerable before his gaze.

“Get on your knees.”

The wooden floor was rough and cold beneath his shins, a contrast to the heat that was radiating from Mercer’s body. The anger was still in the man’s eyes, a hooded darkness that gave Ilya an idea of where the evening would go. 

He frowned as Mercer grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back.

“Untie my trousers.”

Ilya did so without taking his eyes from the man’s gaze. He had given the man the wrong impression the last time they had been in such a situation, his shock and discomfort making him passive and quiet, but not again.

Mercer used his free hand to pull his cock out from his trousers, stroking it as he stared into Ilya’s eyes. Ilya wished he could know what the man was thinking, what was running through his head as he sat so silent, his look so intense.

The stare finally broke when Mercer shifted back, spreading his legs wider and pulling Ilya forward by the grip in his hair. “Please me, little assassin,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides, resting them on the bed.

Ilya was still for a moment, eyes fixed on Mercer’s cock, his mind torn between submitting and resisting. But an assassin did many things in the line of duty that he didn’t want to do, and this was no different. He wrapped fingers around the base of the man’s erection and leaned forward, tongue flicking out to lick a bead of wetness from the head. It had been a long time since he’d done this, since the merchant on the ship from Silas had had him on his knees as he pleased. The man had seemed to want to instruct him in the art, making him try over and over until he got it right.

Still, his body seemed to remember. He stroked the base of Mercer’s cock with his fingers as he toyed with the head, sliding his tongue down the slit and listening to the man groan above him. Mercer was bigger than the merchant had been, stretching his lips as he slipped them down the shaft. He couldn’t take it all in; barely even half of it before it went too far and Ilya felt he was about to choke. 

“The whore could have done a better job,” Mercer said, grasping a handful of Ilya’s hair, forcing his cock further into the assassin’s mouth. It took everything Ilya had not to choke. It was a battle of wills between them; Ilya wanted to withdraw but Mercer’s hand gripped him so relentlessly, forcing him to take more than he wanted. 

It became easier once he made himself relax and even his breathing. Mercer eased his grip when Ilya began to move on his own, bobbing his head up and down to take as much as he could. The silence between them was broken by Mercer’s low groans and the heavy breaths forced from his lungs.

“That’s it,” Mercer moaned, relaxing his grip enough to allow Ilya to pull back and slide his tongue across the head of the man’s cock. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Does your master give you much cause for sucking cock, assassin?”

He chose silence as his reply, wishing he could block Mercer’s voice out and just get on with it. Thankfully, the man returned to his soft groans and panting breaths, his fingers stroking through Ilya’s hair almost tenderly. It seemed pleasure did wonders to ease anger and tension.

Ilya was unprepared for Mercer to grab his hair and yank his head back suddenly, drawing his neck to a painful angle. 

“Join me on the bed,” the man said, stroking fingers down the taut length of Ilya’s neck. The assassin fought to contain the shiver that wanted to pass through him. It was almost as if his body wanted Mercer’s touch. He wasn’t hard, but there was something in the way that the mercenary touched him and the way his eyes stared so intensely that made him think he would be.

Ilya wanted to argue, but did as he was told, rising to his feet and stepping closer to the bed. His instincts kicked in when Mercer grabbed him and pulled him onto the mattress and he struggled against the man’s tight grip. There were so many things he could have done; a hundred ways he could have turned the odds to his favour. But trying to think how to remedy the situation without hurting Mercer proved to be a distraction that the man was eager to take advantage of. Ilya found himself rolled onto his back, pinned down under Mercer’s weight. It was shameful to be overpowered in such a way, but his cock seemed to enjoy the size and heft of the man on top of him, growing stiff against Mercer’s thigh.

He thought the man would say something, mock him for taking enjoyment in such treatment, but Mercer only leaned down for a kiss. His lips were soft at first but he soon grew hard and demanding, forcing Ilya to open his mouth, pushing his tongue inside. 

“Stay,” Mercer said as if Ilya were a dog to be trained, a lazy smile on his face. He kept his weight on top of the assassin but shifted, turning around until the thick length of his cock was bumping against Ilya’s chin. 

The assassin was torn between wanting to push him off and wanting to wrap his lips around the man’s cock. It wasn’t something he would have ever thought he wanted but his mood seemed to have shifted, the desire buzzing inside of him. As much as he told himself he had hated the last time he and Mercer were together, his mind drifted to how it had felt to be on his knees with the man driving deeply into him, wringing pleasure from his body.

His fingers had closed around the mercenary’s cock before his mind caught up, his lips parting to allow the thick head between them. A moan fell from his throat as Mercer began to stroke him and then bent to take Ilya in his mouth. They built up a rhythm between them, Ilya forcing himself to stay still more than anything, allowing the man to fuck his mouth. Mercer’s lips and tongue worked the assassin’s cock, taking him in deeply, making stars dance across his vision. He only broke the flow of his movements briefly to spit on his fingers and then his mouth returned, as hot and wet as ever.

Ilya jolted when a finger slid down between his buttocks, teasing around the sensitive muscle before Mercer pushed the tip inside. His body stiffened, but he forced himself to relax as the mercenary began to press his finger in deeper. Saliva wasn’t an adequate lubrication and at first the finger burned a dull heat within him, pushing through the tight muscles.

“Relax,” Mercer told him, drawing back off his cock. He allowed the assassin a few moments to get used to one finger before sliding another alongside it, forcing the flesh to yield around him. It hurt, but pain was soon forgotten as Mercer’s finger grazed Ilya’s prostate, sparking pleasure through his body, making it hard to breathe around the man’s cock. The man’s mouth returned to its work, the touch of his tongue soft and teasing, counteracting the fingers inside of Ilya that pushed and twisted, stroking over his prostate mercilessly and forcing a choked moan from his throat.

Mercer was getting close. He thrust his cock faster between Ilya’s lips, his free hand tightening around the assassin’s hip. His fingers jabbed deeper, wringing pleasure from Ilya’s body as if he wanted him to tip over the edge at the same time.

It almost happened. Ilya could feel it building inside him, but the stimulation stopped when Mercer stiffened above him, a low groan spilling from his throat as he released into the assassin’s mouth. Seconds ticked by as the man struggled to regain composure and Ilya allowed the cock to slip from his mouth, finally drawing the deep breaths he had been desperate to take. They were cut short as Mercer’s fingers suddenly twisted and his mouth slipped low, taking Ilya in as far as he could. It was too much. The assassin found himself digging fingers into the man’s thigh and throwing his head back, his body almost shaking with the intensity of his climax. 

He collapsed back onto the bed as the pleasure faded, turning his head away as Mercer slid his fingers out, too embarrassed at his own actions to even look at the man. As soon as Mercer moved away from him, Ilya rose to find his clothing, pulling them on with his back to the mercenary.

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Ilya ignored him, moving to the bed to take a blanket and a pillow. He set them down on the floor, expecting Mercer to comment, but the man just sighed and sat down on the mattress. 

Hours later found Ilya lying on his side on the floor in the dark, thinking about what had happened, cursing himself for having enjoyed it so much.


	15. Chapter XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone finally gets to work
> 
> Warning - very brief, non-descriptive underage sex in this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback would be great as I am looking for some insight into how the story and characters are being received so far and whether there are any glaring issues that need fixing.

Ilya found himself awake in the early hours of the morning, deep in thought. Things seemed to be spiralling out of control, and what had started out as a simple assassination had turned into much more. He had suspected that Rynor wouldn’t be the end of it, but never that he would end up as he was, so deep into a plot to free Silaen captives that he knew he couldn’t stop until it was finished. He had promised his master that he would drop it after two weeks – but could he?

Mercer wasn’t making anything easier. The man was doing him a service by helping him, but he made things difficult in the process, trying to encourage Ilya to be more like him and his men during the day and then forcing pleasure upon him at night. He could only hope that the man would not share this particular sexual conquest with his fellow mercenaries. 

Ilya sighed and gave into his body’s natural desire to rise early. Mercer was splayed out on his back on the bed, the covers twisted around his body, an arm thrown over his eyes. He would undoubtedly sleep for a long time yet and Ilya decided not to wake him.

He had a quick wash in the cold bucket of water by the door before slipping out of the room to head down to the main room of the inn. Unlike the previous night, it was quiet and still, its only occupant a girl who was sweeping the floor.

“Oh!” She jolted as Ilya cleared his throat to get her attention, whirling around to face him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone up this early.”

“My apologies,” Ilya replied, bowing his head, “I did not mean to startle you.” He liked the smile that spread across her face, shy but genuine.

“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to a nearby table, “I’ll get you something for breakfast. There’s not much to be had yet, but I’m sure I can find something.”

After the food had been brought, Ilya considered inviting the girl to sit with him for a moment. She seemed different than the loud abrasiveness of the mercenaries, something more akin to his life at the compound. But when she set down the plate and offered him another shy smile, he only gave a brief smile and a nod and she went back to her cleaning. He took the time instead to look out the window while he ate, noting the few people already up and about. Assassins weren’t the only ones to rise early.

He soon grew bored, unable to just sit and watch the world go by when there was so much to do. Leaving a message with the girl to give to Mercer when he finally awoke, Ilya slipped out of the inn and headed towards Briden’s. It was already open and he pushed open the door to find Luvanya sitting on a stool behind the counter, studying a book that was laid out before her.

“Ilya!” She crossed the room in a heartbeat and threw her arms around him and Ilya fought his instinct to get some distance between them. He wasn’t used to people being so close. Instead, he awkwardly returned her embrace and looked down into her face as she finally stepped back. “I wasn’t sure when I was going to see you again,” she said.

“Apologies.” He found that he had actually missed her, sometimes thinking about how nice it would be to see her shy smile or her soft voice. He had been right to think that he was stepping into dangerous territory; forming attachments to people was trouble to an assassin. 

He found Briden in the back room speaking with Josef and another Silaen. His Silaen seemed to have improved remarkably since Ilya had last been there and he seemed much more comfortable with the language.

“Ilya!” The man gave him a wide smile, crossing the room to shake his hand. “It is good to see you again. Though I was expecting someone else.”

“Mercer.” Briden nodded. “Mercenaries rise late. They will be here eventually.”

Briden wasted no time, taking him straight to a desk where the ledger was laid out amongst a number of papers. Some of the names had already been crossed out.

“Those that we have already saved or cannot save,” the man explained. “Three of them I was able to buy from their masters with the money you left with the horses. Two more were…ah…”

“Dead.” Ilya raised his head as Josef stepped closer. “Killed by their masters.”

“What are you doing with the ones you have freed?” Ilya asked, eyes scanning the list and noting the amount of names left. There was still so much work to be done. 

“Sending them back home. I offered them space here but they wanted to be back in Silas.”

By the time Mercer and his men arrived most of the planning had already been done. Ilya left Briden to explain things to them while he took a moment to sit in the sun and think.  
There were more than twenty names still on the list and Ilya had less than two weeks to see to them all. There were some within the city that could be dealt with quickly enough but the ones further afield posed significant problems. He knew he had to do it; he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he allowed even one of them to remain in slavery. They deserved to be back home with their families, not living a life of sorrow and fear. 

He didn’t know what he would do when the time was up. Could he trust Mercer to release the remaining slaves, or would the man demand more than he could give in payment? After all, it wasn’t Mercer’s fight and he had little reason to risk himself and his men for it. 

Ilya was jolted from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Mercer standing beside him. For once the man didn’t have his usual grin on his face, instead his mouth seemed set in a grim line.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” he said, sitting down beside Ilya. “I knew there was a business in slaves but it’s not something that tends to get thought about much.”

“These are my people.” Ilya sighed, turning to look Mercer in the eye. He could forgive the man for the things he did to Ilya if he could help. “I’ve lived the life of a slave; I don’t want them to go through the same.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not now.” Ilya shook his head. “Maybe another time. We have too much work to do.”

Mercer was silent for a moment as if contemplating Ilya’s words, and then he got to his feet, clapping his hands together.

“Let’s get started then, shall we?”

 

Night found Ilya crouched on a wall, eyes tracking the movements of guards below him. There were six guarding the impressive manor house, alert for any kind of mischief. Ilya knew little of the man they were guarding but he must have been rich and important. 

According to the ledger he and his wife had purchased a young female slave from Rynor but that was as far as the information went. While Mercer, Briden and the others hit different locations across the city, Ilya had to take this one alone. He knew he worked better that way; he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else getting injured or in his way. The others were hardly the type to take the quick and silent route. 

Mercer had taken a target right on the outskirts of the city where he and his men could be as loud as they wanted. Briden had gone with Josef to see about the purchase of another two slaves. Ilya hoped they would succeed; otherwise he would have to go in after them and take the slaves by force. 

It left Ilya with the more high profile targets, the ones that required a more subtle approach. Briden had already spoken with the owner of the manor about freeing his slave but he had out rightly refused, having the man escorted from his property by two of the six guards that roamed the perimeter. They looked big and menacing, swords glinting at their sides, muscles bulging beneath their armour, but Ilya knew it was more for show that anything. A deterrent. 

The assassin slipped down the side of the wall once the area was clear, using a handily placed tree to help his descent. There was little light at the rear of the house and with his silent steps there was a low chance of one of the guards being alerted, but Ilya was still cautious, eyes and ears open for movement and sound. When one of the guards stomped back into view, Ilya hunkered down behind a bush, watching. He didn’t need to kill these men; they hadn’t known the intention of Briden’s visit and wouldn’t link him to the crimes, but the owner of the house had to die. It wouldn’t do to bring the city guards to Briden’s door. Ilya would be forced to kill them.

Once the guard had gone, Ilya moved to the wall of the house, searching for possible entrances. None of the windows were open and breaking one would make too much noise, so it was left to find a door with a lock he could pick. He found an outside cellar door to the side of the house with two guards standing in front of it, talking. There was no way he would be able to get in without them noticing so he was left with very few options.

The first guard made no sound as Ilya’s dagger slid through his flesh, body instantly stiffening and then going limp as it fell to the ground. The other opened his mouth to shout but Ilya leapt, forcing him down onto his back on the grass, kneeling over him with a gloved hand pressed over his mouth. There was fear in the man’s eyes.

“I am sorry,” the assassin whispered before drawing the knife across the guard’s throat. Blood sprayed into his face as he watched the man die.

There was plenty of greenery on the manor’s grounds so it was easy enough to find a place to hide the bodies. With any luck, no one would notice them missing until Ilya had had a chance to complete his task.

The lock to the cellar door was picked easily enough and Ilya soon found himself standing in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the absence of light. It looked to be a large room with shapes that looked like barrels and shelves filling most of the space. He found the door after a moment of searching, tucked behind a row of shelves filled with wine bottles, thankfully unlocked. It slid opened quietly, allowing the light from the house to spill into the cellar. 

Ilya wasn’t sure how many guards would be inside the house, only that he needed to proceed with caution. It was late in the day and with any luck most of the staff would have retired to their beds for the night, leaving the house quiet. The only light he could see came from dimmed lanterns on the walls and as he crept further into the house it seemed likely that luck was on his side. He found a guard at the main entrance to the house, but it was easy enough to slip past him and take the stairs to the second floor of the house.  
There seemed to be endless rooms, too many for so few people to need. Ilya had never understood this sort of lifestyle, buying more than was necessary, trying to impress with size and scope. But then he had never had anything.

He found the master bedroom easily enough and the hallway outside was quiet and empty. As he stood at the door he could hear noises from within; the murmur of voices and something else, something that sounded like crying. He listened for a moment longer, noting the squeak of bedsprings and then grunting. 

They didn’t even notice when he opened the door, not until he had shut it behind him and stood taking in the scene before him. A woman sat beside the bed in an expensive looking chair, hand delved into the folds of her skirt, watching. On the bed a man was bent over a girl, both stripped of their clothing. It was obvious that he was buried between her thighs and Ilya realised the crying had been coming from her.

The wife noticed him first, hastily pulling away her hand and uttering a shrill squeak. Ilya slid his dagger from his belt as the husband turned to see what had disturbed them, a frown passing across his features.

“How dare you!” he began, sliding from the girl’s body and getting to his feet, not bothering to hide his naked body. He was tall and broad and his cock still stood proud between his legs. Ilya scowled at the blood.

The girl shifted back towards the headboard, pulling the sheets up around her body as Ilya stalked closer, feeling uncharacteristically angry. The girl had to be Luvanya’s age.  
“Get out of my house!” The man stepped forward to meet him, erection now wilting at the interruption. 

“You had your chance to make this right,” Ilya said, looking into the man’s eyes before he struck out. The anger was churning in his stomach, making him feel hot and his body tight. His first jab sliced down the man’s front, not a killing blow and the momentary surprise was enough for a counter attack. Ilya’s head snapped back as the fist crashed into him, pain blossoming across his face. 

He recovered quickly and went back into the fray, tussling with the man until they both fell to the floor. There was a moment when Ilya was pinned, the man’s weight pressing his body against the floor, when he wondered if he’d underestimated his opponent. He could feel the blood sliding down his face from his nose and he had to wonder how he’d let this happen. His dagger had been lost when he’d fallen and it was out of reach. Fortunately, an assassin never relied on only one weapon. 

The man looked surprised when Ilya stabbed a throwing knife into his neck, pushing it deep. It was enough of a distraction to get out from under him and take out his wife before she realised her husband was dead and started screaming. Ilya collected his weapons when both lay dead and approached the girl on the bed who sat staring with her eyes wide.

“I’m here to free you,” he said in Silaen, picking up what he thought were the girl’s clothes from beside the bed and handing them to her. “Dress quickly, we must leave before we are discovered.”

She didn’t say anything as she scrambled out of bed or when Ilya turned his back to let her dress in privacy. She was silent even as he led her out of the room and back the way he had come in. The guard from the entrance hall was still there but the girl did exactly as she was told and they passed without incident.

Ilya had to help her over the wall at the edge of the property and it was only when they were standing on the outside of the manor’s grounds that she turned to him.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet. Ilya just nodded, taking her arm to lead her to safety. One more to cross from the list, so many to go.


	16. Chapter XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya and Mercer have a moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting - I've almost put up everything I've written of the story so far and I've been very lazy in writing it lately so there may not be anything else for a while.
> 
> As always reviews are welcome, they help me to know if I'm going in the right direction. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

Ilya was the last to return to Briden’s, the girl in tow. Her name was Eva and she turned out to be fourteen years old. She had been taken from her home in Silas like the rest of them, her father killed. Her mother had died when she was small. 

How he had found her was still a solid memory in his mind and the anger was still fresh. The blood had dried on his face but he’d had no time to clean it off but he had to think for a moment when Luvanya looked up horrified as he entered Briden’s shop.

“Ilya!” she hurried over, meaning to see what he had done, but Ilya held out an arm to keep her away. It could have been her he’d found in the manor, a man forcing himself upon her while his wife watched. He couldn’t take his anger out on her. Instead he pushed past her, ignoring everyone as he went upstairs to get a moment alone.

It was bad. Assassins always just did their jobs and didn’t even stop to think about the wrong or right involved, but everything had changed. Now he couldn’t think past the injustice of what was being done, he couldn’t separate work from his emotions. Anger was something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Anger made you make mistakes, it made you weak. 

He was standing looking out of the window when the door opened behind him and he turned his head to see Mercer. He had a bowl in his hand which he placed on a dresser before stepping closer. 

“Come here,” he said, gesturing with his hand. Ilya went without thinking, standing before the man and looking up into his face. 

He allowed Mercer to pull down his hood, looking away as the man surveyed the damage to his face, expecting him to make a joke about Ilya letting down his guard. Instead, the mercenary picked up a cloth from the bowl and used it to begin wiping the blood from Ilya’s face.

“Is it all yours?” he asked. 

“No.”

He didn’t know why he was letting the man stand so close, touch him even, only that the motion of the cool cloth on his skin felt calming. He closed his eyes as Mercer wiped the worst of the blood off from beneath his nose, ignoring the slight sting. His nose wasn’t broken, that was a good thing at least.

“We rescued both of them,” Mercer said as he set down the cloth, both it and the water now stained crimson. “They’re downstairs. I see you succeeded as well.”

Ilya nodded, once again looking up into the mercenary’s face. He’d never paid much attention to how much bigger Mercer was before. There was a moment when they both stood and stared at each other and Ilya became aware of Mercer’s hand grasping his upper arm, the deepness of his breathing, the heat of the body so close to his own.

Suddenly, Mercer was drawing away, picking up the bowl and moving away from Ilya. 

“We’ll be downstairs,” he said, not looking back as he disappeared, leaving Ilya to wonder what had just happened.

 

Spirits were high when Ilya finally made his way back downstairs. It turned out that Briden had a secret stash of ale and everyone was sat around drinking and celebrating the day’s successes. Eva sat in the corner with Luvanya, shy but happy and both seemed pleased to have found a friend to relate to. Josef was the happiest of them all, sitting at Briden’s table with his arm around a young woman and a smile on his worn face. Ilya didn’t know who she was, but guessed that she was one of the slaves that had been rescued.

“Ilya!” the man said as he came in, the grin never leaving his face. He stood up and crossed the room to take Ilya by the hand, shaking it vigorously. “I must thank you for bringing these men here, for making this all happen.” He gestured to the young woman who had risen from her seat and was standing behind him. “This is my daughter Anka.”

Ilya looked the woman over. She looked thin and tired, but otherwise alright, her smile as big as her father’s. 

“I am glad we were able to free you,” he said. “We will continue our search for your mother.”

She suddenly moved to throw her arms around him, leaving him standing awkwardly in her embrace.

"Thank you so much. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Perhaps his discomfort was obvious as laughter erupted amongst the mercenaries and Ilya fought the blush that threatened to spread across his cheeks as she stepped back to return to her father’s side. He would have happily slunk out to spend some time alone but they insisted he join them at the table. He didn’t realise he was hungry until food passed his lips and he ate his fill in relative silence, watching the others beneath his hood. It was all so different to what he was used to; seeing people being so unrestrained was something he hadn’t experienced for a long time. There had been people at his former master’s parties who acted as such, drinking until they couldn’t walk straight, talking loudly and confidently at the table. Perhaps it was why he had found the peace of the assassins so comforting. Still, he found he was becoming used to the way normal people acted, even if he didn’t entirely agree with it. It would be so quiet when he returned to the assassin compound to continue his work.

The celebrations continued well into the night, long after tiredness began to take its hold over Ilya’s body. He made his excuses eventually and retreated to the quiet of one of Briden’s empty rooms, where he could curl up on the floor with a thin blanket. 

 

_There was a hand on his head, fingers twined through the hair close to his skull, pulling so tightly it drew tears to his eyes. The grip forced his head back, his neck drawn taught, his throat exposed._

_“To whom do you belong, slave?” a voice said, belonging to a dark figure that loomed over him; he felt small and vulnerable._

_When he didn’t answer straight away, a hand struck his cheek, the resulting jolt sideways tugging painfully at the grip in his hair._

_“To whom do you belong?”_

_He was given no time to answer before the hand left his hair and then suddenly he was being shoved onto the floor, sprawling on his front. A weight settled on top of him, pinning him down and a hand forced the side of his face against the wooden floorboards._

_“You are mine, slave.”_

_He remained still when the weight moved from atop him, eyes closed as he listened to the sound of movement. There was the noise of something being picked up and then the footsteps drew nearer once more._

_“To whom do you belong?” the voice asked again, this time followed by the swift strike of a cane across his back, pain blossoming over old wounds and bruises._

_“To you, master,” he found himself sobbing out after the fifth stroke, wishing for it all to end. Five more strokes and then the cane was set down and his master knelt down beside him. This time the hand in his hair was softer._

_“Yes, slave. You belong to me. You will always be mine.”_

 

Ilya jerked awake, hand curling around the hilt of his dagger before he realised he was alone. His breath came hard and fast and his body tingled with something akin to fear. It had been a long time since he’d dreamed of his former master and he found he hated what it brought out in him. He had spent long trying to rid himself of the fear and the vulnerability he had once had, but something so simple could bring it all rushing back to him.

His legs felt shaky as he pulled himself to his feet and he forced himself to take a moment to calm down before moving for the door. He needed some air.

The mercenaries were where he had left them, some slumped across Briden’s table, others lying on the floor. Mercer was sitting against the wall near the door, head resting back against the surface, deeply asleep. Ilya slipped past him and out into the dark of the night, relishing the first few breaths of cool, clean air. He was free now and things would never go back to how they had been before. His former master would never again incite fear within him; he had seen to that.

He sat atop the wall surrounding Briden’s garden, looking up at the star flecked sky, wondering just how many people were in the position he had once been. Rescuing the Silaen slaves was just scratching the surface of the problem; there were so many more that needed rescuing, but no time in which to do so. Had he an army then perhaps he could have made an impression, but it was just him and a small group of people that, despite their best efforts, could never do enough. 

He was being dangerously drawn back into a world he had tried to forget and like before, it would be hard to let go. At least this time he wasn’t alone.

 

The days passed quickly. There was enough work to keep all of them busy and Briden’s house was alive with people. Some moved on, gifted with money and sent back home, while others stayed. Eva had elected to stay since she had no family to return to and came to enjoy the friendship Luvanya gave to her. Some of the others Ilya had rescued from Rynor’s slave compound were reunited with loved ones and they too made for home, leaving their thanks. Josef still hadn’t been joined by his wife but he and his daughter lived in hope that they would soon find her so they too could be on their way. 

Ilya had been out often, attacking targets that he was best suited for. Most of them he managed to bring home safely but there were a couple that he had been too late for. Those failures had affected him more than they should have done and he often found himself feeling sullen and moody, wanting to be alone. 

One such failure found him standing in Briden’s garden once more, looking up at the moon. The others were celebrating their successes with more than enough ale being passed around the group. 

Time was running out and it wouldn’t be long before Ilya would have to leave them to return to his master. He didn’t know if they could get it done without him, but there was a part of him that wanted to believe it. 

As an assassin, he didn’t deal with failure well. He cursed himself for not getting there sooner, for not saving the innocent people from the fates they hadn’t deserved. Long buried feeling of self hatred threatened to consume him and he had to force them down, angry at himself for losing his control. 

He spun around at a noise behind him, drawing his dagger before he realised it was only Mercer, drunk from the ale.

“Why do you stay out here all alone?” he asked, seemingly unaware of Ilya’s dagger as it was pushed back into its sheath. “Why don’t you celebrate our success with the rest of us?”

Ilya turned his back on the man, trying to quell his anger. It would be misplaced to take it out on Mercer, despite the man’s annoyances. 

“Leave me alone.” 

He thought for a moment that the man would listen but after a pause Mercer stepped forward, hand reaching for Ilya’s shoulder. The assassin shifted away, backing up to get some space between the two of them.

“Why so prickly, assassin?” A lazy smile crossed Mercer’s face. “And here I thought you were softening to us.”

“I just want to be alone.” Ilya kept his gaze on the man’s face. He wasn’t as drunk as he initially seemed. 

“I suppose you’re used to getting what you want?” Mercer asked, stepping forward once more. “We are in this cause together, Ilya, yet you insist on working and being alone. I wonder if you’ll ever show any gratitude.”

The man reached for him again, but this time Ilya ducked under his arm and thrust a hand against his back, setting him off balance. Mercer caught himself with a hand against the wall and then turned, the grin suddenly gone. 

“So that is your answer?”

Ilya was unprepared for the mercenary to lunge at him, catching him by the arm and shoving him against the wall. He avoided the fist aimed at his face by twisting out of Mercer’s grasp, kicking at the man’s leg to unbalance him in order to get some distance between them. Mercer was down on one knee but he rose surprisingly quickly, advancing once more. It was easy enough to stay out of his grip but Ilya knew he couldn’t really retaliate. Hurting Mercer would only lead to bad things. He just settled for dodging punches and evading the hands the man tried to lay on him until the two were stood opposite one another, slowly circling the garden.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Ilya said, eyes shifting towards the door. Perhaps removing himself from Mercer’s presence would be the answer. However, the man took advantage of the momentary distraction to lunge once more, forcing Ilya down onto the ground, pinning him with his weight. Hands caught the assassin’s wrists, holding tight enough to hurt as Mercer pressed his hands to the ground. 

Ilya began to speak only for Mercer to force their mouths together, his lips hot against the assassin’s, his tongue probing for entrance. Ilya tried to buck the man off of him, but found he could do little without hurting him, only accept the lips that pressed against his own. Mercer’s kiss was hot and possessive, taking control of Ilya’s mouth.

“We risk so much for you.” Mercer’s voice was a growl as he drew back, his eyes dark. “And you fail to show even a little gratitude. Does one of my men need to die before you realise the risk we’re taking?”

Mercer’s cock was hard against Ilya’s inner thigh, pressing tight against him. He couldn’t let the man take him here, not when anyone could come outside and see them.  
“Get off me.” Ilya struggled, pulling against the mercenary’s strong grip on his wrists. He was fast and agile, but his strength was no match for the man. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mercer. Please don’t make me.”

“That’s the problem with you assassins,” the man said, his voice suddenly softer. “You think you’re undefeatable.” He sounded as if he spoke from experience. 

Ilya’s hood had slipped back when he’d been forced to the floor and Mercer released one of his wrists to slip his fingers into the assassin’s hair. Ilya tensed, expecting him to pull it, but the man seemed contented to slide the strands between his fingers. His lips returned, only this time softer, moving against his own until Ilya could feel a stirring at his groin. When he pulled back to nuzzle at the assassin’s neck, Ilya found his free hand caught between pushing the man away and pulling him closer. He gasped as teeth nipped at his neck, fingers curling around Mercer’s shoulder.

“Please,” he forced himself to say, “let me up.”

This time Mercer did as he was asked, getting to his feet and holding out a hand to help Ilya up. Gone was the grin he had entered the garden with and in its place were lips set in a firm line.

“It will be over soon, assassin.”

Ilya watched him go thoughtfully, leaning back against the wall. Perhaps he was asking too much of them, but like Mercer said it would be over soon and they could go back to their lives. 

He doubted he would see the man again after that.


	17. Chapter XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilya runs out of time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only one chapter left that I've already written so I'm hoping I can buck up and write some more soon. I know where the story is going and how it's going to end, but I'm an expert at procrastinating.
> 
> As always comments are loved. I find it great motivation to know people are reading and enjoying my work.

The list was down to five, but they were scattered across the surrounding areas. Ilya sat with Mercer and Briden looking over the ledger and a map of the region, thinking. It had been a hard couple of weeks and everyone seemed tired, but they were so close. 

“I can take this one,” Mercer said, pointing to a town on the map, “and then get this one on the way back. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Briden nodded. “I’ll take Josef to see about these two, which leaves this one for you, Ilya.” He pointed to a spot on the map about a hundred miles north of Dras. “I haven’t even tried broaching the subject of a sale. You can’t get near the place.”

“Why?” Ilya shifted in his seat, staring down at the map. Just five to go and then it would be over. Only would it really be over? How long until he heard about the next batch of slaves?

“The place is like a fortress,” Briden said, scratching his chin. “And they don’t like visitors. I don’t know if anyone else can get in there.”

Ilya nodded. He had just got up from his chair when there was a knock on the door and he watched as Briden crossed to open it. The figure that stepped across the threshold brought a sigh to Ilya’s lips. Dressed in the dark assassin gear, the man had a blue sash tied around his waist. One of Davix’s Blades, then, not one he instantly recognised.  
“Shade Ilya.” The man inclined his head. “Our master has sent me to make sure you honour your arrangement and return promptly.”

His name was Marrett, a quiet man that Davix seemed to trust well, but he had little potential in combat, seeming more suited for a scribe’s path. Ilya moved to stand before him.

“Tell Master Davix I will return soon.”

A frown passed the man’s face.

“He will not be pleased, brother.”

He would be livid. Ilya had only seen his master lose control of his anger once and it was not something he wished to see again. Davix was usually so calm and collected but, Ilya had to admit, even he had his limits. He had now been without his Shade for two weeks and had most likely been relying on Blades to get his work done. Ilya knew he should go back, that it was the sensible thing to do but he was so close to completing his mission. Before it had begun he would never have dreamed of disobeying his master but now perhaps his priorities lay differently.

It was a few days later when Ilya was preparing to leave Dras to rescue the last slave when the door to Briden’s shop opened. Luvanya and Eva were sitting at the counter, their usual position once Briden had begun to teach them Nadoan, and from the back room Ilya could hear them talking with the newcomer. He recognised the deep, smooth tones of the man’s voice as that of Naius, Master Gallic’s Shade. 

“Ilya!” he heard Luvanya call as he set down his pack with a sigh, moving through to confront the man that had come for him.

“You look like you’ve become quite settled here.” Naius was taller that Ilya, and there was more strength in his frame. He was a good assassin, but he lacked some of the agility Ilya’s lithe form afforded him. “It’s time to go.”

Ilya turned his head to look at the two girls, both of whom looked back with wide eyes, a mixture of fear and curiosity shown on their faces. Despite the time he had spent at Briden’s they all knew so little about his past, his life and who he was. Things were better that way.

His move to reply was interrupted by Mercer entering the shop through the front door.

“The blacksmith did a good job,” he said, gesturing to the sword at his hip. “She’s as good as new.” He came to stand beside Ilya and Naius, perhaps not missing the way they stood facing each other, the mood tense and confrontational. 

“Tell Master Davix I will return soon. I have one more job to do.” Ilya really didn’t want to do this here in front of the others. Assassin matters were usually kept private; their business was their own.

Naius shook his head as he crossed his arms, less willing than Marrett had been to return with the news.

“That isn’t acceptable, Ilya. You will return with me now.”

Ilya wondered if it would come down to blows between them. He wouldn’t give up when they were so close to getting it done and sending everyone back to freedom. One more and it would all be over and he could go back to the compound with a clear conscience. 

“I am not finished, Naius.”

Ilya didn’t miss the way the other assassin’s hand fell to his belt, fingers touching the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at any moment. He was about to speak, to ask Naius if they could move their fight elsewhere when a hand fell on his shoulder and he turned to look into Mercer’s face.

“Go, Ilya,” the man said, a strange look in his eyes. “We’ll complete the job before we head back home. Go back to your master.”

Perhaps it was a goodbye. He knew in a strange way he would miss them all. His normal life of solitude and quiet had been broken by coming into Briden’s home and he found he’d come to enjoy the company of others. Even Mercer irritated him less than he had done so before. 

He wasn’t one for long goodbyes. He bade farewell to Briden, the mercenaries and the Silaens as he gathered the last of his things then headed towards the door. Luvanya stopped him on the way, throwing her arms around him, pressing her face to his shoulder and this time he felt less awkward about returning her embrace. Mercer just stood by the door, watching them silently, giving Ilya a nod before he followed Naius outside.

The journey was long and quiet. Naius and Ilya hadn’t spent much time around each other and when they did the other assassin made his distaste clear. Whether it was a dislike of Silaens or of Ilya himself, he generally kept quiet save for the odd snide comment. On the trip back to the assassin compound he chose to keep his comments to himself, riding ahead of Ilya at a speed that suggested he was eager to get back. Perhaps he was looking forward to finding out what Ilya’s punishment would be.

It turned out to be an uneventful journey and it seemed all too soon that the walls of the compound loomed before them. Ilya felt a tightening in his chest as they approached, eyes passing the lines of the walls that suddenly seemed like a prison. How had things changed so much in the two weeks he had been gone?

Naius left him once they were inside the compound, and Ilya took his time leading Inna to the stables, knowing that his master was waiting for him. Beth was out training her apprentices again, turning to give him a smile as he walked past her that he wished he could return. It felt like everyone was looking at him, waiting to grind his nose into whatever punishment he would be given. He had never felt more like an outsider before.

Master Davix was standing by his window when Ilya entered the room, and he stood looking out for what seemed like a long time. Ilya stood uncomfortably, hands clasped behind his back, trying not to shuffle his feet anxiously. Normally he would pride himself on his stoicism and firm constitution, but waiting to hear what his punishment would be brought back memories. Standing quietly as his former master thought up a punishment, watching the almost gleeful look on the man’s face as he made his decision. More often than not the punishment would be whipping, spanking or caning; at least Master Davix would not degrade him in such a way.

“I am very disappointed in you,” Davix said as he finally turned, crossing to his desk to sit down. “Tell me why you disobeyed me.”

Ilya sighed. How could he explain everything that had happened? Master Davix was a good man but he would never understand Ilya’s position or the sacrifices he was willing to make. Master Davix had never been a slave, he had never watched people being sold and treated like cattle, had never been beaten for performing a task wrong or too slowly.  
Instead of giving excuses, Ilya stood up straight, looking his master in the eye.

“I did what I had to, Master. I will not apologise for that.”

The silence dragged on between them once he had spoken, a heavy tenseness in the air that made Ilya’s heart pound wildly. He had never disobeyed his master in such a way before and wished Davix would just get his punishment over with. Davix’s eyes watched him, staring into his own as if trying to work something out. Finally, he stood, his mouth set into a firm line.

“You will turn over your sash and take your new position as Blade immediately,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the red sash Ilya wore at his waist. “You will not leave the compound unless I give you the order to do so and you will not see Dax Mercer again, do I make myself clear, Ilya?”

It could have been worse, but it still made Ilya’s heart sink. His master didn’t trust him anymore.

“Yes, Master.” Ilya bowed his head, fingers plucking the binding of the sash free so he could pull it from his waist. “May I make a suggestion as to my replacement?”

Davix nodded. At least, perhaps, he still trusted Ilya in some ways.

“Blade Beth does a good job with her apprentices and I believe she may be ready to receive Shade training.”

“Very well,” Davix said after a moment of thought. “Go and trade sashes with her, resume training her apprentices and send her to me. You will report to Blade Merilyn from now on.”

It was with heavy footsteps that Ilya made his way down to the courtyard, pausing to look over those in training. Beth was still there with her group of apprentices and there were a few more groups scattered around, some training in blades, some hand-to-hand, and some with bows. It seemed a long time ago that he had been one of them.  
Beth gave him a questioning look as he approached, sash in hand and he stopped before her, trying to ignore the eyes of the apprentices that fell upon him.

“Sister,” he began, the words thick in his throat. “Give me your sash, this is yours now.” He held out his sash to her; red, the colour of blood. Her own was blue, a fairly dark shade that didn’t stand out so much against her clothing. It was a denotation of rank, a way of showing that you could still be hidden with the bright colour around your waist. The master assassins’ sashes were white, but it was rare that they had a chance to show their skills with stealth.

“I don’t understand,” Beth said as she took the sash, her fingers stroking delicately over the material as if it were something sacred. “Why are you giving me this?”

“You are to report to Master Davix, sister, to begin your Shade training. I will take over your duties.”

She looked as if she had more to say, her mouth poised to form more words, but then she nodded, hands moving to undo her own sash. It was not their place to question the orders of their master in such matters.

“Take good care of them,” she said, her eyes shifting to the apprentices that stood around trying not to look as if they were listening. “Some of them are hard to teach, but they are all very capable.”

Ilya nodded.

“Good luck, sister.”

He watched her go and then turned to the apprentices, gaze skimming over the group. They were mostly male, but there were a few females in their midst, every bit as capable as their counterparts. He knew that other Orders didn’t think women made good assassins, that they were too soft or too weak, but they were far from right. The women in their Order were clever and fast, particularly Lilliana, the Shade of Master Eliana. Ilya had fought her a number of times and found her to be a difficult opponent, matching his own skill with a blade.

Beth was certainly more suited to train the group of apprentices than Ilya was. He had no idea where to even begin.


End file.
